


Deceive, Inveigle, and Obfuscate

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Relationship of Convenience, Tropes, a cavalcade of my favorite tropes, canonical through the S2 winter break, fun with the technicalities of the legal system, marital testimonial privilege plays a surprisingly large role, mid-season 2 canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 128,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  When a threat to Felicity's safety isn't something that Oliver can put arrows in, the team has to look for different kinds of solutions to assorted legal problems. Diverges from canon during S2 mid-season break. <b>Written as a thank you to my lovely tumblr friends</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: To Jen and Mer for the beta/encouragement, and to Sus for all of that PLUS the awesome title (yes, it's an X-Files reference, because geeks!).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to [quiveringbunny](http://quiveringbunny.tumblr.com/) for the amazing art! :)

Sometimes, Oliver acutely misses his responsibility-free life before the Gambit.

These days, he puts every ounce of himself into living up to the big things -- saving the city, helping Queen Consolidated recover -- but that means sometimes he just can’t quite keep up with the little things. And Felicity, for as much as she resisted the “promotion” to EA, is excellent at keeping him on task and mostly on schedule.

Which is, he tells himself, the main reason he feels so adrift with her spending so much time in Central City with Barry. In her absence, Oliver is late to meetings, he doesn’t remember to bring collateral with him, sometimes he forgets to eat lunch. Oliver can’t quite balance _all_ of the disparate elements of his life, and the result is usually making someone mad at him.

Like Isabel, who is standing in the middle of his office, arms crossed beneath her breasts, when Oliver arrives at Queen Consolidated. 

“You’re late,” she accuses.

Oliver has no defense, considering it’s after 9:30 and he’d meant to be here a good hour ago. He glances back, but Diggle has abandoned him to his fate, the traitor. Oliver lifts a hand to stay Isabel’s diatribe and says, “My driver had--”

“I don’t care,” Isabel interrupts, walking closer and stopping just inside his personal space. They haven’t been this close since their ill-advised liaison in Moscow, and Oliver freezes, unsure what, exactly, she’s doing. “We have reason to suspect someone within the company is involved in corporate espionage.”

That is not at all what Oliver expects her to say, and he takes a moment to process.

Isabel’s expression shifts from anger to condescension. “That’s when someone here is selling company secrets to--”

“I know what it is,” Oliver interrupts, his tone sharp. “Why do we suspect this is happening?”

“Wladkowski in the IT department noticed an irregularity in the security protocols,” she explains, “and while we don’t know exactly who or what has been in our systems yet, we know our system has been accessed from outside.”

Oliver feels a low buzz of panic. Vigilante-related problems he can handle. He can understand those and address those. But QC-related problems are almost always outside of his varied and very strange areas of expertise. Add to that an implication that technology is involved, and the inescapable conclusion is that he needs Felicity. 

Swallowing his flare of irritation that she’s _not here_ when he needs her, Oliver gives Isabel a short nod. “Okay, what’s the plan? Who’s investigating?”

“Wladkowski is the department head, so he’s heading up the forensics investigation.”

He’s also an idiot, according to Felicity, but Oliver can’t say that right now. Instead, he moves toward his desk. “I want a briefing at noon, and I want Felicity Smoak brought up to speed on--”

“No,” Isabel declares, and Oliver _must_ be imagining the note of satisfaction in her tone.

He halts mid-step, turning on his heel to face her. He should try to school the expression on his face, but that seems like too much effort for the moment. He probably looks murderous. Or Arrow-y, in Felicity parlance. He glares at Isabel. “Excuse me?”

“This is a very delicate matter, Oliver, and--”

“Felicity is a security expert, and a trusted employee of this company,” he counters. Loudly. “If _anyone_ should be involved in the investigation, it’s her.”

“You’re wrong,” Isabel answers, tilting her head just the slightest bit. Considering the circumstances, Oliver is sure he’s misreading the look on her face. She can’t possibly be _happy_ about this. And then she speaks, “There’s some preliminary evidence to suggest that Felicity Smoak may be involved in this.”

Oliver opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. If he was surprised at the idea of corporate espionage, he is absolutely _stunned_ at Isabel’s assertion that Felicity could be a part of it. The suggestion is so _absurd_ and _wrong_ that he doesn’t even know where to start. “Isabel...”

“I’ve contacted the FBI,” she says. “Since QC is an international company, there’s understandable concern that this kind of corporate espionage is -- in addition to being a fire-able offense for the perpetrator -- a federal crime.” Her chin tilts up, just a little bit. “Someone should be here from their field office for that noon meeting you requested.”

With that, Isabel gives him the smallest of smiles and turns, heading out of his office with more than her usual hip sway.

Oliver is still trying to put this all together, to make it make sense in his brain. He wants to call Felicity immediately. He wants her on a train back here, to help him untangle this. But if Isabel is suggesting that Felicity may be a target of this investigation, he wants her as far away as possible.

Because Oliver can protect Felicity from physical threats. He would willingly turn himself in and spend the rest of his life in jail to protect her from legal repercussions of her decision to join Team Arrow, but he doesn’t have the first idea how to protect her from _this_.

He pulls out his phone and sends Dig an S.O.S. text. 

Then he just _barely_ resists the urge to throw his phone against the wall.

“Fuck!”

& & &

Felicity is a big fan of order and reason and logic. And schedules. She definitely likes those.

Of late, her life has been a little... _lacking_ in those kinds of structures, and it’s starting to wear on her. Balancing a job she -- well, _hates_ is a little too strong, but she has never aspired to be someone else’s right hand woman, so she definitely doesn’t _like_ being an EA either. And trying to keep Oliver in check in _both_ demanding parts of his life, while keeping their technological support as flawless as she can -- well, that’s a lot.

And that was _before_ Barry, her friend and _maybe something_ , was struck by lightning and left in a coma.

Adding the emotional stress of Barry’s plight and weekly hours-long train rides to and from Central City to her already overflowing plate and... Well, she’s feeling a little _stressed_.

So it’s totally understandable, her reaction when she connects her tablet to the train’s (admittedly kind of slow and terrible) wifi and attempts to VPN to the QC network, only to be denied.

The denial message pops up on her screen and she just... She cries.

They’re angry tears, but that doesn’t really matter. In fact, it just makes her _angrier_ , which makes her cry harder, and then the older gentleman across the aisle is giving her worried looks and handing her a _handkerchief_ , which is a sweet gesture but also gross, because _who even uses_ handkerchiefs anymore? “Thank you,” she manages.

Then she pulls out her phone and calls Oliver. Who doesn’t answer. 

What? Since when does he ignore her calls?

Feeling even more disconnected -- and, if she’s being truthful, a little bit panicky -- Felicity calls Diggle next, who answers on the third ring with a hushed, “Hey.”

“Dig, I--” She stops, because, really, she has no reason to call _Oliver_ for a technological problem. If her VPN access is down, she should really call IT. Or fix it herself. Which she can’t do until she gets back to Starling in, oh, two hours.

“What’s wrong?” Dig asks, and she knows immediately he can tell she’s been crying. “Is it Barry?”

“No, no,” Felicity says, taking a deep, calming breath. “No change. I’m just-- I just got frustrated. I’m not sure why I called, since I can’t exactly ask you to run down to the QC servers and reset my VPN access,” she adds, hoping to lighten the mood.

To her surprise, Diggle doesn’t laugh. In fact, he sighs and says, “Hang on, okay?”

Felicity frowns at the phone, then puts it back to her ear, listening to the sound of Diggle’s footsteps on the other end, and then the unmistakable whoosh of wind across the phone. He’s ventured outside to talk to her, for some reason, and she’s _really_ starting to worry, a slice of panic across her abdomen, when finally he says, “We’ve got a bit of a situation, Felicity, and I need you to head straight to the Foundry when you get in.”

“John?” she asks. “Is Oliver--?”

“He’s fine. What time is your train? I’ll pick you up.”

“You’re kind of freaking me out here,” she says, her free hand fisted around the handkerchief in her lap, her gaze catching on the error message from her attempts to connect via the VPN: _ACCESS DENIED_. “What’s going on?”

“There are some…” Diggle pauses, clearly searching for the best way to say this, and Felicity goes rigid waiting for the axe to fall, “ _security_ issues at QC. They’re being handled, but--”

“What kind of security issues?” Felicity demands, tugging her tablet closer. “I can--”

“No!” Diggle half-shouts, and Felicity goes very, very still.

“John?”

“I’ll explain when you get here, I promise,” he answers. “But for now, you need to stay very far away from this issue, okay? No logging in, no trying to fix anything. Just let the IT group do their jobs.”

Felicity is more than a little offended at that. “You realize that I’m an actual _expert_ at this, right? I wrote my thesis on multivariable--” She stops, shaking her head. “Not the point. Dig, I can _help_ with this. I can handle this probably better than anyone in IT.”

“I don’t doubt that, Felicity, but--”

“Is this Oliver?” she demands. “Is he being all--” She waves a hand around in front of her, even though Diggle is not there to see it-- “ _Oliver_ about things?”

“For once, Oliver has his head on straight,” Dig answers. “Listen, I need to take care of a couple things here, but I’ll be at the train station to pick you up.”

“And answer all of my questions?” she asks a little pointedly.

“Yes,” he agrees.

“Because there will be a lot of them,” she warns.

“I’ll tell you everything I know, Felicity,” Dig answers, and finally, there’s a note of amusement in his voice. “I promise.”

“Okay,” she agrees, reluctantly. But it’s not like she has much choice, trapped as she is on a train with no access into the QC system to just figure it out for herself. “I’m not happy about this,” she adds.

“None of us are, Felicity,” Dig answers. “Believe me.”

And then he hangs up, and Felicity is left with two hours to herself. To think about this security-related mystery that she can’t solve because she’s not there and no one will give her the details. 

It’s the actual worst.

& & &

Oliver stalks across the empty dance floor of Verdant. It’s the middle of the day -- there’s no one here. But Oliver scans to make extra-sure he hasn’t been followed anyway. 

For some reason, the situation with QC has him off-kilter. It’s a threat, but it’s not a physical threat, and it’s not a threat against _him_. It’s a threat to Felicity; to her freedom. Just the thought of her being arrested, being put on trial, it makes his body seize with panic. 

Pausing at the PIN-protected door, he takes a breath and steels himself to face this. 

He descends the stairs quickly, then jerks to a stop when he sees Diggle and Felicity standing shoulder to shoulder, matching expressions of anger in place. He knows it’s not directed at him -- not really. It still stings, though, to see how close they’ve become, to feel just a little bit excluded. 

As usual, he has nothing to blame for that but his own damnable instinct to _run_ when things get bad.

Oliver sighs and moves closer. “Dig told you,” he says, just barely repressing the urge to glare at his friend for his presumptuousness. Oliver really wanted to be the one to explain this to Felicity -- particularly since he’s spent the last several hours in emergency meetings where the details of the technological espionage had been laid out. It’s his responsibility and, in some weird way, it feels like it’s his _right_ to tell her. He feels like he should be the one to tell her things.

It’s a feeling he takes great pains not to examine too closely.

Felicity steps right into his personal space in that unnerving way of hers, and tilts her head in irritation. “Why does _that woman_ \-- and I’m very tempted to call her several other words, by the way, but I refuse to lower myself to her subterranean level -- how could she _possibly_ think I’m stealing QC secrets and--” Felicity finally uncrosses her arms, but only so she can throw her hands in the air. “And _what_ exactly do they think I’m _doing_ with these secrets?”

Oliver dips his chin. “Felicity--”

“Wait,” she interrupts, her entire body vibrating with incensed outrage. “What _are_ the secrets being stolen? And has Wladkowski even managed to block the backdoors this person exploited, or is there, just, a _gushing faucet_ of QC trade secrets flowing out into the world because my old boss is too much of an _idiot_ to--”

“Felicity!” He raises his voice this time, his hands cupping her shoulders to reel her back in. “There are about two dozen people working on this right now -- investigating the leak and ensuring whatever... _hole_ was exploited is closed. Okay?”

She makes a disgruntled noise, but nods. “Fine. But, seriously, Oliver, we need to start looking at whatever the information is so we can determine who would benefit from _having_ it, and then--”

“Felicity.” It’s Dig interrupting this time, moving closer so she only has to pivot slightly to face him. “The secrets stolen from QC are not my primary concern right now,” he tells her. Then he glances at Oliver. “Or _his_.”

Something twists in Oliver’s gut when Felicity looks at him with an expression of uncertainty, like she’s not sure Oliver would prioritize her safety and freedom over the fate of the company. Because he’s starting to figure out that he prioritizes her safety -- he prioritizes _her_ over almost anything else in his life. It surprises him that she can’t see that. “We need to get you clear of this,” he tells her, his tone brusque. “I still don’t fully understand _why_ they’re looking at you for this, but it needs to stop. Now.”

Felicity doesn’t answer, her eyes wide with trepidation, but Diggle is shaking his head. “That’s not how the system works, Oliver,” he says, then grimaces a little. “At least not for the rest of us.” Off Oliver’s questioning head tilt, Diggle crosses his arms and adds, “We can’t just build the SCPD a new police station so they look in a different direction.”

Oliver would argue, but he’s been arrested more than his fair share of times without ever facing a single _real_ consequence. His parents and their lawyers had never done anything so obvious as Diggle suggested, but they’d certainly wielded their influence to ensure _Ollie_ never had to answer for his stupidity and selfish choices. Oliver knows enough now to know it won’t be like that for Felicity, not if the SCPD can find anything to tie her to the crime. “Felicity’s right,” he says instead. “If we figure out what’s been stolen, we can identify who stole it. And turn that information over to the SCPD.”

Oliver’s cellphone buzzes in his pocket, and he wants to ignore it. But it could be Isabel with more on this entire clusterfuck of a situation, so he pulls it out, then frowns down at the display in surprise. He accepts the call and answers, “Walter?”

“Oliver, I stopped by your office, but didn’t find you.”

“I’m,” Oliver shakes his head, but there’s really not a good reason for him to be anywhere else when the company is addressing a threat. “Not at the office,” he finishes lamely.

“Well, yes,” Walter answers. “Might I assume you’re with Felicity?”

Oliver glances at her reflexively; she’s standing several feet away, watching him curiously, but there’s that little crinkle in her forehead that betrays her tension. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s your friend,” Walter says, and Oliver bites down on the urge to object, because _friend_ seems too small of a word for what Felicity is to him. “And she’s entirely too ethical to have done what they’re accusing her of,” Walter continues. “I assumed you’d want to make sure she wasn’t railroaded.”

“You’re right,” Oliver agrees. “About all of it. Felicity has nothing to do with whatever’s going on at QC. In fact, she’s probably the only person who can identify who _is_ responsible.”

Felicity makes a little disbelieving noise, and when Oliver turns to her, she’s flushed but grinning at him. Then she does that thing with her face that she is convinced is a wink but is more like smooshing up one cheek and blinking both eyes. The wave of affection that crashes over him in response nearly knocks him off balance.

“Be that as it may,” Walter continues, “I just wanted to ask you to pass along some important advice to Felicity.”

“Of course,” Oliver says. “Or -- would you like to speak to her?”

Felicity moves closer, holding out a hand eagerly for the phone. “Mr. Steele?” she greets, then laughs a little. “Yes, okay. Walter.” 

Oliver glances at Dig, who’s still radiating concern and tension. Oliver can read the impatience in his friend, the need to be _doing_ something to fix this. He knows they need to game plan this thing out, investigate as much as possible so they can prove Felicity had nothing to do with it. He knows they need a strategy, but right now, he can’t keep himself from watching her face as she speaks with Walter.

At first, it’s because she’s flushed and smiling and _beautiful_. As the conversation moves on, it’s because Felicity is starting to look uncertain, maybe even scared. She’s nodding and answering with little “Mmhmm”s, but she’s not _talking_. 

“Felicity?” Oliver murmurs, but she glances at him and turns away. 

“That makes sense,” she finally says, quiet and subdued. “Thank you for--” She breaks off, nodding as she listens to Walter. “I understand. Thank you, Mis-- _Walter_.”

She ends the call but remains in place for a long moment, facing away from the two of them. When she turns back, there’s a patently fake smile on her face and she holds out Oliver’s phone. “Guess I should look into lawyers!” 

Oliver steps towards her. “Felicity--”

“Walter thinks the--” She falters, swallowing. “The police are going to want to bring me in for questioning.” Her gaze slides away, fixating on something in the middle distance as she crosses her arms tightly against her torso, her shoulders curving defensively. “I didn’t like that much last time.”

Oliver fights the sudden panic. “We’re not gonna let that happen,” he vows, but Diggle is already shaking his head.

“C’mon, man, you know there’s nothing we can do about a police investigation,” he argues. “At least not without making it look like she is absolutely guilty and hiding something.”

“But she’s _not_ hiding anything,” Oliver erupts, all the panic and frustration spilling out of him. “Felicity hasn’t done anything wrong and I will not sit idly by while--”

Her hand on his arm interrupts him more effectively than her loud voice ever has. When he turns to look down at Felicity, her eyes are shimmering with tears, but her expression is set with what she would call determination and he considers stubbornness. “Oliver, there’s nothing we can do right now, okay?”

“I don’t accept that,” he protests. “We can--”

“I need to find a lawyer,” Felicity says, “and you need to distance yourself from me. Whatever’s going on here, Oliver, why target me?”

Behind her, Diggle curses and shifts.

Oliver is lost. “What do you mean?”

“We know Stellmoor wants QC,” Felicity answers. “And we know Isabel has a--” Felicity pauses, her mouth twisting with distaste, and Oliver can feel the hot burn of shame along the back of his neck. “A _thing_ for you. Or about you.” She shrugs. “Whatever. Isabel wants QC for Stellmoor, and you’re standing in the way. We have to consider whether this is a ploy to weaken the company or to weaken you by painting you the feckless playboy who trusted a conniving, gold-digging criminal.”

Oliver blinks. “Gold-digging?” He realizes a half-second too late that _this_ is really not the appropriate focal point.

Felicity flushes, but answers him. “There’s a general belief around QC that you promoted me to EA for my skills.” She presses her pink lips together, then takes a breath and clarifies. “Not my office skills, I mean. Like, _guess she’s good at things other than typing_ kinds of skills.” She snaps her mouth closed on a little groan of embarrassment.

“I know what you meant,” Oliver says, trying to keep his tone neutral. Clearly, Isabel hadn’t been lying in Russia when she told him about the office gossip. It occurs to him only now that Felicity has known all along, which means she’s probably been the target of pointed remarks and judgmental looks for months. How had he missed that? He looks down at his shoes for a moment, then back at her. “I’m sorry.”

Her mouth opens into a surprised ‘O.’ 

They stand there, staring at each other for a long, strange moment. It’s Diggle that breaks the tension, stepping forward to ask, “So if this is an attempt to wrestle control of QC away from Oliver, what’s the play? And how do we counter it to keep Felicity safe?”

Oliver grows more and more frustrated as they game plan and toss ideas around. They don’t know enough yet, and because of the possibility of a legal investigation, Felicity can’t risk digging around the QC environment to see what she can find. She understands this logically, but grumbles anyway. It doesn’t surprise him that her frustration is focused at least equally on the damage being done to QC by this unknown threat as her own precarious situation.

He has never in his life done anything good enough to deserve the loyalty of this woman.

This thought -- or _realization_ , really -- keeps him quieter than normal as Dig and Felicity discuss options. Finally, reluctantly, they conclude the best play is for Oliver to find out as much as he can from the official investigation, and for Felicity to go about her life as normally as possible. The unspoken expectation is that she’ll be hauled in for questioning very soon -- possibly even tonight.

As plans go, it’s unsatisfying and incredibly vague. Oliver hates it, but has no better suggestions. So he follows Dig and Felicity to the town car, ignoring that strange wistfulness he feels when Felicity wraps a hand around Dig’s arm and leans into him. 

Oliver holds the door open for her, then slides in beside her. “I’m going to head to QC once we get Felicity home,” he decides. “Dig, you don’t have to--”

“Please,” Dig interrupts with a chastising look in the rearview mirror.

The rest of the drive passes in silence, until they turn onto Felicity’s block. She shifts in her seat, and Oliver glances over. “You okay?”

“What if they arrest me?” she asks, her voice low and a little bit shaky.

Oliver doesn’t think a promise to break her out of prison is what she needs right now, but he knows he would do it without a second thought if it comes down to it. She can create her own new identity and live somewhere else, somewhere safe. 

But that’s worst case scenario, and he will do everything in his power to make sure they don’t get there. Carefully, he reaches over, letting his hand rest gently over hers where they’re tangled together in her lap. “We’re going to figure this out, Felicity,” he tells her.

She looks up at him with those eyes of hers and nods. “Okay,” she says. She takes a deep breath and exhales as Dig pulls to the curb. “I’ll see you guys later,” she offers with a tremulous smile.

Dig turns and meets her gaze. “We’ve got your back.”

Her smile deepens. “I know,” she says. With a quick glance at Oliver, she steps back and closes the door.

Oliver and Dig sit in silence until she unlocks her door, turns, and waves. As Dig eases the car away from the curb, he asks, “Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet,” Oliver admits. “But I will.”

& & &

Felicity spends at least an hour perched on the edge of her couch, essentially trembling with dread and anticipation, waiting for the cops to show up. She’d refused to let Oliver and Dig come in and wait with her, because they need more info on the attack, and what information was stolen, and, of most immediate importance to Felicity, just what evidence has been manufactured to suggest this was her fault. Since their best bet is for Oliver to get his hands on the details in his role as CEO, she and Oliver need to maintain as much separation as possible. 

Felicity gets it -- she’s the one who suggested the plan. She’s on board. Really.

It’s just that sitting alone waiting for the other shoe to drop? Is _really_ nerve-wracking. She has always had a vivid imagination, and she has spun herself multiple worst-case scenarios involving guilty verdicts and prison time. By the time Officer Lance knocks on her door just after 7, she’s a wreck.

When she opens the door to the man she’d been considering an ally, the grim look on the his face does _not_ make Felicity feel any better about any of this. 

“Ms. Smoak,” he says gruffly, “I’m gonna need you to come down to the station and answer some questions for me, okay?”

“Okay,” she answers automatically, then frowns. “I mean, answers about what?”

He closes his eyes briefly, his voice dropping as he leans closer. “If this is related to your little green secret, you’re gonna need to do better than _that_.”

“It’s not--” she begins, then stutters to a stop. Because it’s _not_ \-- not really, but she’s realized since that terrifying parachute trip to Lian Yu to bring him back that all roads seemed to lead her back to Oliver. 

Lance sighs. “C’mon, Ms. Smoak.”

Meekly, she follows him to the car, congratulating herself for changing into a comfortable yet office-appropriate purple dress and heeled boots. She’d refreshed her makeup and fixed her hair, because one of the few useful life lessons she’d learned from her mother is that looking good helps you to feel good, and feeling good can be an armor all its own.

So Felicity swallows down her uncertainty and walks into the police station with her chin up and a small smile on her perfectly painted pink lips. 

Her confidence falters some when she’s left in the interrogation room for over an hour, but she wrests it back into place when the Lance finally stalks into the dank room and drops into the seat across from her, setting down a steaming mug of coffee on the metal table.

“Is that for me?” she asks. Because all of this _waiting_ is exhausting, and she could absolutely use a pick-me-up.

Lance’s frown is answer enough, but he tugs the coffee closer before speaking. “Can you tell me where you were this morning, Ms. Smoak?”

She nods once, happy that Lance opened with something relatively easy. “Central City. Well, I mean, I was there the past few days, which includes part of this morning. Then I was on the train.”

“Central City,” Lance repeats dubiously, though Felicity isn’t sure why her answer would garner that reaction. 

“Yes,” she confirms.

“Why?”

“I was visiting a friend,” Felicity explains, focusing on keeping her answers short and truthful and to the point.

“This friend have a name?”

“Of course,” she says. The ensuing pointed silence becomes uncomfortable, and she adds. “Barry. Allen.” Then she winces, because isn’t this Interrogation 101? She’s watched enough procedurals to know criminals talk themselves into trouble when they try to fill the silence. But she’s not a criminal.

Well, that’s not _technically_ true, but she’s not the criminal they’re looking for in this particular instance. So she just has to become comfortable with heavy silences to get through this. “No problem,” she mutters under her breath.

Thankfully, the detective lets it go. “So you were visiting a friend in Central City,” Lance surmises. “Can this Barry Allen confirm?”

“Uh, well, no,” Felicity admits. “He’s-- Um... He’s sick.”

“Sick?” the detective prompts.

“Coma,” she answers, and she hates that her voice shakes when she says it. “Barry’s in a coma, so... he can’t confirm much of anything right now.” She grips her hands tightly together, willing herself to stop shaking. She is not guilty and has nothing to be nervous about. Probably.

“Okay, Ms. Smoak. And what time was the train you took?”

The questions only get more detailed and boring from there, going over and over the same set of facts from different angles. After the first hour, Felicity is starting to regret not requesting a lawyer. Oliver had, of course, offered one of the Queen family attorneys, but Felicity refused on principle -- their strategy is to keep Felicity and Oliver very separate, and him paying for her lawyer is the actual opposite of that. So. She tries not to fidget in the uncomfortable metal chair as the detective asks where she was last night (“Central City. In a hotel.”) and this morning (“The hospital. I told you.”) and this afternoon (“With friends.”) 

Eventually, Lance starts in with technical questions -- it’s clear he’s playing dumb, hoping she’ll explain her way into incriminating herself. From the tenor of the questions, she’s starting to get a sense of just what happened at QC. It’s not good.

The interrogation continues, and she answers as truthfully as she can -- and as succinctly.

But her brain has already spun this five steps ahead of where they are. She doesn’t need a lawyer to tell her that this investigation is going to be trouble. Not because she’s got anything to do with whatever’s going on at QC. 

No, the _real_ trouble is a particular forest-y shade of _green_. Because the little team they’ve built only works if no one looks too closely at the three of them. _Particularly_ if no one looks too closely at their cover stories -- because Felicity’s job change doesn’t make all that much sense without Team Arrow, and her friendship with Diggle doesn’t make as much sense without Team Arrow. Hell, Felicity Smoak even _knowing_ Oliver Queen doesn’t make really _any_ sense without Team Arrow, because Oliver is still publicly playing the part of his pre-island, womanizing, just... _really gross_ self.

And... that’s when she sees where all of this is going.

“Frak,” she mutters, frowning down at the scratched metal tabletop in front of her. Because she _knows_ cellphone records obtained by the police can include geolocation. If she’s truly the current target of SCPD’s investigation -- and from the line of questioning, it’s clear that she is -- she _knows_ they’ll pull all the cellphone and credit card and ISP records they can to substantiate or disprove her story of where she spent today. Then they’ll review her patterns and habits to see if today varied from normal, to see if they can find any indication of a ramp up to a cyber attack. 

They won’t find what they’re looking for, but she _knows_ what they’ll find instead -- an awful lot of nights and weekends spent in the Glades.

And maybe they can’t triangulate down to the exact building, but there’s not much else open in Verdant’s tumbledown neighborhood. 

If the police pull that thread too hard, they might unravel _everything_. 

“Ms. Smoak,” Lance says, emphasizing her name so her attention snaps back to him. “What friends? Where did you spend this afternoon?” 

Frak. Frak. _Frak_. 

Oliver is going to hate this idea. _She_ hates this idea. But, she thinks with more than a little vitriol, his insistence on making her his EA opened them both up to the exact kind of speculation that she can maybe exploit here.

Felicity takes a breath, folding her hands in front of her and looking Lance right in the eye. “I was with Oliver. At Verdant.”

The detective’s brow furrows as he stares at her. “At Verdant? Doing what?”

Her cheeks flush hot but she tilts her chin up. “Oliver,” she answers. Then winces. “I mean-- Not that kind of-- Well, actually,” she corrects, “ _yes_ , but I maybe should’ve phrased that better?”

Lance’s jaw drops and he is full of skepticism when he bites out, “What?”

“Oliver and I are--” She stumbles over how to describe it, how to explain night after night meeting up at Oliver’s club for sex, instead of going to either of their homes. Hard to sell the romance. 

So she finally shrugs and says, “Hooking up.”

& & &

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Huge thanks to lerayon for kicking around some bizarrely detailed legal items for this story; much appreciated! :)

Waiting is _not_ Oliver’s strong suit.

Being unable to do anything to help while Felicity is questioned by the police? For _hours_? It’s driving him insane. And, yeah, Felicity said in her text not to come here, reminding him of their plan to distance themselves from each other, but there wasn’t even a question in his mind that he’d be at the station waiting when she was done.

Diggle hadn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, Diggle is just as determined as Oliver to stay until she’s released, and to get her home safely. The difference is that Dig is much, much calmer than Oliver. At one point, he’d shoved a _Field & Stream_ magazine into Oliver’s hands and pushed him into a seat with a gruff, “Stop pacing.” 

The glossy paper is crinkled in his grip, the magazine unopened on his lap, when finally, _finally_ Oliver looks up and sees Felicity. She’s pale and wide-eyed, but she’s got her chin up. He can’t quite stop the small smile when his gaze skims over her pert ponytail, perfect makeup, and purple dress. Everything about her is so fresh and unexpected, even here in the terminally rundown police station. 

When her gaze finds him, Felicity falters, just a little, and Oliver is up and moving towards her. He makes himself stop inches from her, but she closes the distance and throws her arms around his waist. 

Adrenaline hits him and he cradles her tightly against him, starting to panic at her out of character actions. “What happened?” he demands, glancing suspiciously at Lance, who’d followed her into the waiting room and is watching them with a scowl on his face. Oliver presses her closer. “Felicity, are you okay?”

She nods against his chest, but doesn’t elaborate. He can feel her fingers against his back, digging in a bit, urging him closer in a way she’s never done before. Not that they’ve hugged much, but she’s definitely never hugged him quite so determinedly before.

Oliver’s arms tighten around her in reaction. “Officer La--”

“Oliver,” Felicity interrupts, leaning back a bit. When he looks down at her, her face is set with that familiar stubborn determination. “Thanks for coming to pick me up,” she adds, and then she shifts. He loosens his grip on her, expecting her to step back, but then her hands are on his face, pulling him closer, and she leans up onto her toes, and then -- _what the fuck?_ \-- she’s kissing him.

Oliver freezes for a moment, eyes wide and disbelieving, before it occurs to him that for some reason, _Felicity is kissing him_ , and he’s _missing_ it. His hand flattens along her spine, easing her closer, as a warm feeling he can’t quite define blossoms in his chest.

But as soon as he moves, reacts, shifts his lips against hers to take some part in _whatever_ the fuck is going on, Felicity drops back and steps away. Her eyes are wide, her breath coming a little too fast as she stares up at him for a moment; then she turns on her heel and walks away.

Oliver blinks. “What?” His arms hang suspended in the air, where Felicity just was. 

But Felicity herself is gone -- she’s already stalked past Diggle, who’s looking back and forth between her retreating form and Oliver with a dumbfounded expression on his face. Then Dig shakes himself out of it. “I’ll bring the car around.”

Oliver nods, his mind whirling, trying to assimilate the events of the last thirty seconds. Trying to adjust to a world where Felicity just kisses him sometimes -- and does that mean it will happen again? He’s really not sure how he feels about the possibility. Confounded, he turns back Lance, struggling to pull himself together. “She’s free to go, I assume.” His voice sounds a little unsteady.

“For now,” Lance answers, disapproval in every ounce of his body as he glares at Oliver. “She’s a nice girl, Queen.”

Reflexively, Oliver glances at the other end of the waiting room, but Dig and Felicity are both gone already. “I know,” he answers belatedly. In fact, _nice_ doesn’t begin to cover all the amazing things that Felicity is, but that’s not probably not what he should be focusing on right now. Even if he can still feel the warm press of her body against his when she kissed him. 

_She kissed him_. Yeah, he’s a little hung up on that -- stunned and confused and annoyed and a whole mess of other things, including more than a little bit of lust. Which is a problem. Definitely a problem.

“Try not to treat her like some dirty little secret, then,” Lance growls, jerking him back to the present.

“What?” Oliver asks, genuinely lost.

“Maybe take her somewhere in the light of day.” Lance steps closer, glaring. He lets his disdainful gaze drop the length of Oliver’s body, evaluating and clearly finding him lacking, before adding, “She deserves better.”

Before Oliver can think of anything to say in response to that, Lance turns and stalks off.

 _What the fuck just happened_?

& & &

Felicity is shaking with adrenaline and relief and trepidation when Oliver slides into the limo beside her. Because she just kissed him -- _she kissed Oliver_ \-- and while she has a perfectly good reason, she hadn’t exactly warned him. Or given him a choice.

What if he hates her now?

What if he contradicted her story?

What if he refuses to go along with her (admittedly desperate and kind of insane) plane?

When he turns to her with wide, puzzled eyes, her hands fly into the air in an attempt to placate him. “Before you get mad, I’m really sorry, but I was in there and I realized they’re going to figure it out and we need a cover story and, well, _this_ story is already kind of out there? So I just went with it, but I should’ve run it by you first, so I’m sorry.”

She stops, blinking rapidly, and tries to take a breath. Her lungs still feel strangely tight, like she can’t get enough oxygen to counteract the strange lightheadedness. Like she’s going to topple over any second.

Oliver’s expression is impassive as he stares at her with every iota of his attention. It’s kind of unnerving when he watches her so intensely. He takes a deep breath and asks, “Are you okay?”

Felicity opens her mouth, then shuts it again in confusion, before managing a breathy, “What?”

And then Oliver does that _thing_ where he looks at her with soft eyes, like she’s the most important person in the world at this very moment. His palm lands warm and heavy on her leg, just above her knee, and the combination of all of _that_ is unfair. “Are you okay?” he repeats gently.

She nods without thinking. “I’m fine.” Then she wrinkles her nose. “For now. This is bad, Oliver,” she admits, her voice shaking. “Really bad. Whoever did this -- if Lance was basing his questions on what actually happened, the perpetrator is incredibly talented.”

His fingers squeeze her leg gently. “As talented as you?” 

Felicity reaches for cheerful bravado. “That’s a pretty small club.” Her voice shakes a little too much. Because if anything, she’s underplaying how bad things are -- Lance doesn’t know enough about technology to understand the complexity of the cyber attack, but Felicity is starting to worry quite a bit about what information has been accessed. And by _whom_. But at least she has a place to start digging, some clues to point her in the right direction.

Diggle catches her gaze in the rearview mirror. “I can’t believe there’s anyone else in the world as talented as you, Felicity.”

As usual, his support is unexpected, and exactly what she needs at the same time. She has to blink pretty hard to keep the tears from falling. She does manage to give him a smile, before he turns his attention back to the road.

Inhaling slowly, Felicity steels herself to turn back to Oliver. “I told Lance we were hooking up,” she blurts out. And, yeah, she really should’ve taken a moment to figure out how to couch that a little better; maybe ease into the topic. 

Oliver’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t otherwise react. 

“They’re targeting me,” she explains, the words tumbling out in a torrent, “because they know I _could_ do something like this.” She pauses, grimacing a little. “If I were _evil_ , anyway.” She’s kind of offended, to be honest, because Officer Lance knows her well enough by now to know she’s working for the _good_ guys. But that is something to untangle later. Right now, she has to explain to Oliver why she’s using him and the reputation he’s so ashamed of as cover. “They’re going to look at everything, and because I’m your EA, they’re going to investigate whether I used my position--” She grimaces a little at her turn of phrase, but presses on-- “to inject this virus into the system. And they’re going to look at you, Oliver, because you brought me in--”

“As my EA, yeah,” Oliver interrupts. He’s following her so far, but Felicity can tell by the furrow in his brow that he hasn’t made it to the logical conclusion.

“Oliver, If they pull cellphone records, if they use cell tower triangulation to try to prove where I was today, great. But if they go back, if they look for patterns, for anything strange that might support their Evil Hacker Felicity hypothesis, they’ll--”

“They’ll find that you spend a lot of time in the Glades,” Diggle interrupts. “And if they’re trying to clear or implicate Oliver, they’ll find out _he_ does, too. Which could lead the cops to other mysteries to solve.”

Felicity glances back and forth between her partners. “Right,” she says. “If they look at _your_ records, too... The best I could come up with to explain all three of us at Verdant all the time was--”

“Ollie Queen, up to his old tricks,” Oliver interrupts, bitterness and self-loathing dripping from every word. “You’re right,” he says, pulling his hand from hers and practically folding into himself. “It’s the most obvious cover story.”

Her heart aches for him, for this man who allows people to believe the worst of him when he’s trying so hard to be better. “Oliver--”

“We’ve got a problem,” Dig announces, slowing the town car and pulling over to the curb. 

Felicity whips her head around and peers through the windshield. Three satellite trucks are parked on her block, several professionally lit standups for live reporting littering the sidewalk. “Oh, frak,” she mutters. Somehow, she hadn’t expected this -- shouldn’t QC keep the attack on its network as quiet as possible? Leaking it to the press doesn’t make any sense, and Felicity is suddenly, irrationally sure this is Isabel’s doing.

Beside Felicity, Oliver’s posture goes even _more_ rigid, and he’s leaning forward, focusing on the press scrum with the fully intensity of his Arrow glare. “Head for the mansion,” he orders. 

She freezes. “What? Uh, no. There’s a back entrance. I can just--”

“No,” Oliver objects. “The FBI and the SCPD agreed to keep this quiet, so who leaked this? Who benefits from another public scandal involving the company? Who benefits from turning public attention onto _you_ , Felicity.” He grimaces. “We don’t understand the full scope of what’s going on. We need to make sure you’re safe from more than just the press.”

Her eyes narrow and she studies him. “You were perfectly fine with dropping me at home, where I live by myself, _before_ you saw the press.” When he very carefully doesn’t look at her, she reaches out and slaps his bicep. “Oliver Queen! Were you going to find a nearby rooftop to stalk me?”

He jerks his head around to glare at her. “That’s not _stalking_ , Felicity.”

She glares right back at him. “I didn’t ask for you to be my bodyguard, Oliver.”

Oliver’s gaze skips away from her and he shakes his head. “Felicity,” he begins, quieter now and less defensive. “Would you please stay at the mansion tonight?”

It’s a bad idea. A terrible idea, really. Because she’s starting to realize what she put in motion -- she and Oliver will have to sell their cover story. They’ll have to touch more, and maybe kiss again, and all of that is so dangerous for her heart. She’s been half in love with Oliver since she helped Dig save his life that first night in the lair, and this pretense is going to hurt. She wants as much time as possible to herself to prepare, to buttress her heart. And, very probably, to tear through a pint of ice cream. 

Spending the night at the mansion with Oliver is the _opposite_ of what she needs. But she has to concede that facing the press right now would be even worse. Facing the press _at all_ would be worse, actually.

They stare at each other for a long moment, until Felicity sighs. “Fine.”

From the front seat, Diggle cheerfully chimes in, “If nothing else, it’ll help sell your hooking up cover story, Felicity.”

Oliver winces and looks away from her, and Felicity’s gut floods with dread. She’s not even sure this ruse is going to be enough to save her from prosecution, she definitely doesn’t know if she’ll be able to untangle what happened at QC and find the perpetrators. There are so many unknowns already, and now she’s trapped them into pretending to be something they’re not. She’s trapped Oliver into pretending she’s his... _something_ , even though he most assuredly does not want a public _anything_. 

He’ll do this for her, she knows he will, even if it’s the last thing he wants. And at some point, he’ll probably blame her for this. What if she’s started them down a path that will ruin their relationship? 

And what if it’s all for nothing in the end?

Felicity’s spiraling a little, and the only thing that brings her out of it is the limo drawing to a stop. She looks up and sees the imposing front doors of the Queen family mansion.

 _Oh, frak_.

& & &

With some trepidation, Oliver opens the door and ushers Felicity inside. To his relief, the large entryway is empty, the lights on but dim, as if everyone in the mansion has already gone up for the night. It’s nearly midnight, after all.

“Yup,” Felicity murmurs beside him, “still crazy huge.”

He bites back a laugh, bringing his hand to her lower back to nudge her towards the left staircase. He doesn’t hear any approaching footsteps, but the mansion is too large to be sure whether it’s empty just based on the lack of audible sounds. He’d rather not stick around to see if this uncertain situation can be made even more awkward by adding his mother or his sister. Though Thea is probably at Verdant. 

His mother, however, rarely leaves the house these days, preferring to keep her social interactions limited to situations where she won’t be subjected to cutting looks or cruel comments. Oliver understands the impulse, and sympathizes, because she’s been apportioned an unfair amount of blame for the Undertaking. She’s not without some responsibility, but the vitriol has no other living targets so she’s been receiving the bulk of it. She doesn’t complain, simply pulling the borders of her life in closer.

“Oliver,” Felicity says as they reach the second floor. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

He pauses, turning to her. She’s fidgeting, her hands twisting the button band of her bright blue jacket. Concerned, he moves closer. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, her nervousness disappears and she gives him an exasperated look. “Would you like an alphabetical list, or chronological?”

This time, his amusement escapes him in a small huff of air. “Right here, at this moment,” he clarifies. “You look--” He stops, reconsiders his word choice-- “unsettled.”

The smile she attempts to give him is not very convincing. “It’s been an unsettling day. I’m really tired and I just...” She glances down at herself, then pulls the edges of her jacket apart to reveal her purple dress; Oliver ignores the warm _awareness_ he feels as his gaze slips down her body. “I don’t have pajamas with me. This dress is super cute, and surprisingly comfortable, but it _sucks_ as pajamas. Honestly, anything with _zippers_ just shouldn’t double as nightwear.” 

“Felicity.” He’s smiling at her. He can’t help it. He’ll never understand her ability to brighten a moment, just with simple observations about the world. He’s just glad to have her in his life.

She shrugs. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I can go grab some pajamas at a drug store. Or one of those tacky Starling City t-shirts. Then I can just check into a hotel and--”

“ _Felicity_.” He places his hands on her shoulders, giving in to the urge to touch her, telling himself he’s simply trying to get her attention. “You can borrow something of Thea’s, or you can wear one of my t-shirts.” The words are out before he really considers what he’s suggesting, before his brain supplies _other_ circumstances under which she’d end up sleeping in his clothes. His gaze drops to her body once more, and he can’t quite imagine the sight of her in his clothes, but the idea alone does things to him. Inappropriate things. He shifts his weight, telling himself to get a grip.

“I--” Felicity pauses, clears her throat. “Thea’s clothes would be great, thanks.”

They can’t quite look at each other for a long moment, until Oliver nods and says, “Great, I’ll find you something.” He turns and heads down the hallway, bringing her to the relatively small and rarely used guest suite just one door down from his own room. He still thinks of it as Tommy’s, because when they were young, Tommy had spent at least as many nights sleeping here as sleeping at the Merlyn manor. 

The thought of anybody in Tommy’s room used to make Oliver’s chest ache, but he finds the idea of Felicity any farther away from him than next door unacceptable. He won’t let himself examine why that is.

Pushing open the door, Oliver takes a step into Tommy’s room, feeling Felicity come to a stop just behind him. He hasn’t been in here in years, not since before the island, but his mother kept things basically the same. The room is decorated with dark, forest green textiles and furnished with heavy wooden furniture, the same as it was when he was a kid. He swallows hard at the unexpected flood of memories -- a dozen quick images of Tommy from before -- before the island, before Laurel, before...

“You can stay in here,” he tells Felicity, his voice a little rougher than he expected. “I’ll-- I’ll go get you some clothes.” Abruptly, he turns, heading for Thea’s room. As expected, she’s not there. He feels a little awkward rooting around her bureau, but finds a t-shirt and yoga pants that he figures will work.

By the time he returns to Tommy’s room, he’s tamped down his reaction. Then he knocks lightly and walks into the room, only to stop short when he sees Felicity at the bookcase near the window, holding a picture frame. 

She turns to him with a watery smile. “Oliver, these are great pictures.”

He moves closer, ignoring the deep ache of grief in his chest. He doesn’t need to look -- he knows exactly what pictures she’s found. These photos -- they were his mother’s way of showing Tommy he was family -- she’d framed a whole series of pictures of Tommy with the Queens. Most of the pictures are Tommy and Oliver, of course, but the one in Felicity’s hands shows the two of them as goofy teenagers, plus a small, gangly, grinning Thea perched on Oliver’s shoulders. 

Oliver clears his throat, staring down at the smiling faces. He misses Tommy every goddamn day. “She used to follow us around, all the time,” he tells Felicity. “She was my little sister, so I rolled my eyes and pretended to be annoyed, but I secretly loved it. Tommy, though -- she wasn’t his sister. He had no reason to be patient with her, but he always was. _Always_. When I was,” he pauses minutely, “away, I always told myself that he’d look out for her. That even if I never... That she’d always have Tommy, no matter what.”

Felicity’s small hand lands on his back, smoothing over his shoulder blade in slow, comforting motions. “I’m sorry about Tommy, Oliver.” Her voice is soft and full of compassion. “I wish I’d known him better. I-- I’d like to hear about him sometime, if you’re ready to share your memories of him.”

Surprised, Oliver looks down at her. They’re standing closer than he realized, and her eyes are mesmerizing this close. He’s disoriented, suddenly -- this strange combination of nostalgia for his childhood, his ever-present grief over Tommy’s death, this hyper-awareness of Felicity, and, of course, his well-worn guilt. It’s throwing him off, making him think the strangest thoughts, making him want impossible things. 

He shakes his head, trying to clear out the chaos, but Felicity’s expression flattens and she drops her hand away.

“I mean,” she says, “you don’t have to, obviously. You’d probably rather reminisce with Thea. Or Laurel.” Carefully, almost reverently, Felicity replaces the framed photograph on its shelf, then steps back. “I didn’t mean to overstep, Oliver. I’ll just--”

“No,” he interrupts, struggling for words, “it’s not-- You didn’t.” But he is terrible at talking about his feelings, and can’t figure out how to explain it to her. He wishes she could just look at him and understand, because the guilt, the regret, the _sorrow_ inside of him is so vast and tangled into an impossible knot; he can’t possibly talk about Tommy without getting tied up with all the rest. And the _last_ thing he wants to do is bring all of his sadness and turmoil into her life.

Briefly, Felicity moves closer, and he relaxes, because maybe she understands what he can’t seem to articulate. But she just reaches for the bundle of Thea’s clothes in his hands. “Can I...?”

“Of course,” he answers automatically, handing them over, feeling bereft as she puts a bit of distance between them.

“Thank you, Oliver,” Felicity murmurs. “For everything.”

Before he can think of a response, she disappears into the bathroom, closing the door between them with a muted click.

& & &

Felicity is definitely not hiding in this really, _really_ nice bathroom. Nope, not hiding. She may be taking her time getting ready for bed, but in her defense, she’s a guest -- she has no idea where any of the soap or towels or _toothpaste_ lives in this over-sized bathroom. It takes a little while to find everything.

Just because things are a little awkward with Oliver, just because she’s wearing his sister’s clothes and sleeping in his family’s mansion and, oh, yeah, _totally kissed him_ earlier, there’s no reason for her to hide from him. Which she is totally not doing.

“Right,” she tells her reflection with a firm nod. Then she tugs her hair free from her ponytail and runs her fingers through it. 

Teeth brushed, hair down, pajamas on, Felicity pushes open the door to the guestroom and stops abruptly when she sees Oliver standing near the window. He’s facing the other direction, and she might think he was gazing absently out into the manicured grounds of his estate, if she couldn’t recognize his brood-y stiffness at fifty paces. When his body gets all _grrrr_ like that, she knows he’s either blaming himself for the world, or considering really dumb, self-sacrificing plans. Or both.

“Oliver?” she asks quietly. 

He turns to face her, arms crossed over his chest, expression closed off. His gaze drifts down her body, then snaps back up to her face. “Clothes okay?”

“Fine,” she answers, even though Thea is smaller than she is, and the borrowed clothes are a little... _snug_. Their gazes catch and hold, and for once, Felicity can’t quite read him. It’s disconcerting.

With that exchange over her borrowed PJs out of the way, Felicity has no idea what to do. He’s not speaking, and she’s surprisingly tongue-tied. And anxious. Also that. Because she’s been to the Queen mansion before, but for parties, not sleepovers. She is so far out of her depth right now that she can no longer see land; she left her dress hanging in the bathroom, so she has nothing to occupy her hands. She can’t even entertain the idea of climbing into bed with Oliver just standing there watching her. Bed plus Oliver equals dangerous thoughts. 

So in the absence of other options, she just... stays where she is, holding his gaze over the king size bed between them.

If the nervous hand tic is anything to go by, Oliver feels just as out of sorts, which just confirms Felicity’s fears that her attempts to save herself are going to break her friendship with Oliver into pieces. He shifts his weight and says, “Should we talk about today?”

Felicity blinks at him. “What about today?” Because there are like a dozen different things he could mean at this point, and she isn’t at all sure where to begin.

“The, uh…” He tilts his head, “the cover story,” he says, and his voice is lower than normal and a little gruff. Not quite Arrow-y, but not the warm, soft tones he often uses with her. “You and I hooking up.”

She can feel the flush blooming across her cheeks at his words. “Right,” she says, and why does her voice sound all high-pitched and strange? “That.”

He nods. “We should maybe... think about some ground rules.”

Felicity drops her gaze, and it lands on the bed, and _why_ are they having this conversation late at night in a bedroom, like it’s not _already_ awkward enough? “No,” she says, a little too loudly. He looks startled, and she takes a step forward, one hand lifting in his direction. “Wait, I just mean -- it’s been a really long day, and maybe this is the kind of conversation we should have over coffee.” Which kind of sounds like she’s asking him out. Dammit.

Oliver presses his lips together.

“Not like--” _Not like a coffee date_ , she wants to clarify, but suspects it’ll just make everything _more_ awkward. Which she wouldn’t actually think possible, except that her words have already turned the suave, smooth playboy into a stiff, silent shadow of himself. Just by suggesting they might be able to convince people they’re sleeping together. So that’s great. She shakes her head a bit. “Can we table it until the morning?”

“Of course,” Oliver agrees. And then he’s moving toward her and she goes utterly still, the phrase _going tharn_ bouncing absurdly through her brain. As he rounds the foot of the bed, he pauses. “Do you need anything?”

“Oh,” she answers on a sigh of relief. Or possibly disappointment. “No. I’m good. Fine.”

He nods, his gaze intent on her as he indicates the door she’d assumed was a closet. “I’ll be right through there if you need anything.”

She nods, mutely. She’s supposed to be able to sleep peacefully with Oliver one door and like twenty feet away from her. Great. Good. Totally no problem at all. 

Oliver pauses in the doorway and looks back at her. “Good night, Felicity.”

“Good night, Oliver,” she manages.

Once the door clicks shut between them, she takes a big, shuddering breath. “Okay,” she mutters to herself. “This is totally fine.”

It’s a lie. 

Still, she pulls back the covers and groans as she climbs into the _super_ comfortable bed. It’s like lying on heaven, with warm, fluffy blankets cocooning her. On a normal night, Felicity would settle in with a sigh and be asleep in moments, but she knows even as she flips the bedside light off that she’s too wired to sleep tonight. Too wired and _totally bereft_ of electronics other than her phone to pass the sleepless time. 

“Well, _that_ is not okay,” she decides. And then she agonizes over her options. Her phone is just not powerful enough -- despite her custom upgrades -- to sustain the kind of research she wants to do. Even RDP-ing into the lair’s systems from her phone isn’t going to work -- at least not effectively. She needs something with a more RAM, _and_ with a keyboard for maximum speed and flexibility.

It’s been a few minutes since Oliver retreated to his room, and she really shouldn’t bother him. But if she’s not going to sleep, she wants to work on the problem. So with a little whimper, she pushes herself back out of bed, squeaking when her bare feet hit the cool hardwood.

When she reaches the door between their rooms, she hesitates again. Should she really bother him? Hasn’t she made _enough_ of a nuisance of herself today? 

In the end, the soft glow of light beneath the door convinces her that at least she’s not going to wake him up. Holding her breath, she knocks softly.

There’s a pause -- short, but still long enough for Felicity to vehemently regret knocking -- before Oliver’s slightly breathless answer. “Come in.”

Felicity pushes the door open, and her gaze finds him at the opposite end of the room. He’s shirtless -- of course, _of course_ \-- wearing muted plaid pajama pants, his feet bare. The intimacy of it, the sight of his familiar warrior’s body in this unfamiliar _domestic_ context, the glow of his skin in the low light of his bedroom -- it’s overwhelming.

They stare at each other for a long moment, until Oliver’s brow furrows and he steps closer. “Felicity? Is everything okay?”

“I can’t sleep,” she blurts. Then sighs at her perpetual inability to control her mouth. “I mean, it’s not the bed. The bed is great. _Fabulous_ , actually. If I could live there forever, I totally would.” She flushes at the unintended implications of her words. “Not--” She stops, waves it off. “Do you have a laptop?” she asks, redirecting her thoughts. 

It’s his turn to watch her for a long, speechless moment. “Yes.”

She tilts her head and gives him what she hopes is an endearing smile. “Can I borrow it? I promise not to look at your browser history.”

To her amusement, he actually flushes a bit. “Of course you can borrow it.”

“Thanks,” she says. He waves her closer and she moves toward the desk against the side wall. When they’re standing inches from each other, Felicity realizes there’s a thin sheen of sweat across his torso. He must’ve been working out -- Oliver’s time-tested method of exhausting himself into being able to sleep. She fights the urge to reach out to him, to comfort him as much as she can with her touch. 

Because the last time they were this close, she’d kissed him. It was for show, yes. It was to sell a story. But that doesn’t change the fact that she has finally felt the scrape of his stubble against her chin, the surprisingly soft press of his lips against hers. Sure, he’d stiffened at first, but after a moment, he’d slipped his warm palm along her spine, and she’s pretty sure she’ll never, ever be able to forget what it felt like for Oliver to urge her body closer to his.

Now that she’s had just the tiniest taste of what she’s almost always wanted between them, she’s not sure how to push it down anymore. But since she’s hopelessly complicated this thing between them with her decision, she needs to start _thinking_ about the way she touches him; about the way she looks at him. 

So when Oliver lifts the laptop and half-turns to hand it to her, she accepts it and takes a small step back. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “I’m going to do a little digging, see what the press has. _Maybe_ the SCPD.”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, his voice low and soft and _intimate_ , and is he trying to kill her? “Please be very careful.”

She can see his concern for her, and it warms her. Against her better judgment, she reaches out, letting her fingers trail along his forearm in what is _supposed_ to be simple comfort. “I always am,” she tells him.

To her surprise, Oliver shifts his arm, capturing her hand with his. For a long moment, they just stare at each other, hands tangled together. Then he squeezes her fingers and lets go, stepping back, breaking the strange moment. “Sleep well, Felicity,” he says, and if his voice is a little hoarse, well, Felicity will just chalk that up to the long day.

“Yeah,” she manages, and then practically flees to the guest room, pulling the door shut between them. She climbs into the bed, pulling the sheets and blankets up over her lap, then piles a pillow on top for good measure.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers. “I am so screwed.”

& & &

Oliver wakes with the sun.

That’s not unusual, but the gritty feeling behind his eyelids reminds him that he barely slept. 

And then it comes rushing back -- the cyber attack on QC, the police, the press scrum outside Felicity’s place. And now Felicity is asleep in the next room. It takes every ounce of his determination not to go check on her. He wants to reassure himself of her safety and comfort by laying eyes on her, but he doesn’t think she’d appreciate that, not after how grudgingly she’d accepted staying the mansion in the first place. With a sigh, Oliver rolls out of bed and heads for the shower.

Twenty minutes later, he’s in jeans and a sweater, his feet bare against the lush carpeting as he heads for the kitchen. He pauses outside Felicity’s room, listening for any indication that she may be awake. After an awkwardly long time, he sighs and heads downstairs.

Where he finds his mother, perfectly put together and sipping coffee as she scans the paper. “Oliver,” she greets. “I’m glad I caught you.” He understands instantly that she’s been waiting for him, and will not let him disappear until they have whatever conversation she wants to have.

Their relationship has always been complicated, but now there is an additional layer of strain and mistrust. He believes that she loves him and Thea with a fierce protectiveness, but he can’t understand the choices she’s made. The dangerous secrets she’d kept, the lies she’d told -- they sit between Oliver and his mother, coloring every conversation they have. But she doesn’t understand that his own secrets and his guilt burn in his chest, making it impossible for him to fix whatever awkwardness is between them. Because she may not be the woman he always thought she was, but he’s not the son she sees, either. 

He loves her, but he can’t bring himself to trust her. And now he _knows_ she wants to talk about QC and Felicity, which is the precise conversation he does _not_ want to have with her.

“Morning,” he replies, moving past her to the stovetop. Although there’s no sign of her, it’s clear Raisa has been here -- there are several slices of crisp bacon and two omelettes sitting on the warmer.

“Oliver,” his mother begins, as soon as he sets his plate down across from her, “did you bring your assistant here last night?” 

Her voice holds only the barest trace of disapproval, but immediately, Oliver bristles at her implication, her censure. “Mom, that’s really none of your business.”

His mother’s eyebrows lift in carefully modulated disbelief. “Ned Foster called me this morning. He mentioned you’d inquired about a criminal defense attorney for your assistant.”

“Her name is Felicity,” Oliver grits out. “And she has nothing to do with the attack on QC. I won’t stand by and watch her get railroaded.”

“Everyone I spoke to at QC said the same thing, Oliver,” his mother counters. “They’re not sure they even fully understand how this...” she pauses, stumbling over the technological jargon, “polymorphic virus works, and the only person with access to the QC network who _could_ understand this virus -- or _deploy_ it -- is Felicity Smoak.”

“That’s more a critique of the shallow talent pool at QC than an indictment of Felicity,” Oliver returns, then stabs a forkful of food angrily. He shovels it into his mouth, considering the conversation over. He will protect Felicity, whatever that entails, and he’s not particularly interested in his mother’s opinion on the topic.

“Oliver--”

“We’re done talking about this,” he interrupts. 

“Please, Oliver, I’m trying to understand what’s going on here, but I can’t make sense of it.” She holds up a hand, staying his protests. “The police and everyone at QC are essentially convinced that this woman had something to do with a very serious security breach -- a _criminal_ offense -- yet you invite her into our home and offer to pay for her legal defense.” His mother shakes her head, looking honestly confused. “Who is she to you, Oliver, that you would jeopardize what your grandfather built?”

And Oliver finds that he can’t answer that question, at least not easily. Because Felicity is so many different things to him, and he has no way to verbalize them all. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. He remembers introducing her to his family last spring, calling her his friend. She is, of course, but it’s such a small part of what she is that the word feels inadequate.

He’s still scrambling for a response, for _something_ to say to appease his mother, when he hears hesitant, shuffling footsteps approaching from the long hallway. Felicity’s timing is, as ever, impeccable. He turns to the door, and can’t help the small smile on his face when he sees her, still flushed and rumpled from sleep, wearing a borrowed t-shirt and yoga pants as she shuffles into the room with a hopeful, “Coffee?”

She freezes the moment she sees his mother, her spine straightening. “Mrs. Queen,” she greets, and it’s only because he knows her so well that he can hear the uncertainty. “Uh, good morning. I wasn’t... expecting you.” Felicity wrinkles her nose slightly. “Which is silly, since this is your house. _Mansion_ , I mean. So thank you. For letting me stay. Which... I’m not sure you knew that I did? But... I did,” she finishes lamely, shooting him a look that roughly translates to _make me stop talking_.

Oliver rises from his seat, moving to her side to usher her over to the counter. She comes willingly, and he notices with a fondness that warms him that she barely comes up to his shoulder when they’re both barefoot. “Coffee,” he says, pulling a mug down and handing it to her.

Felicity’s clearly still flustered, but she manages a small grin. “My hero.” She grabs the carafe and fills her mug to the brim, before taking a large gulp, and only then pausing to add sugar.

Oliver can feel his mother’s inquisitive gaze on them as he grabs a plate and piles on an omelette, then puts bread into the toaster. They stand in companionable silence as the bread toasts. He can’t help stealing quick glances at her; Felicity simply leans against the cabinets, her eyes closed in bliss as she sips her coffee, her tiny hands wrapped around the mug for warmth. 

He’s never seen her like this before -- sleep rumpled and warm, her hair a slightly messy wave down her back, still fighting her way from sleep to wakefulness. She looks impossibly younger, all faint freckles and pale pink lips and, when she blinks up at him, wide, beautiful blue eyes. The unnamed ache in his chest intensifies, and he resists the urge to move closer, to lean into her.

It’s a strange moment of domesticity that Oliver doesn’t want to disturb, but he knows he should take advantage of the pause in the confrontation with his mother.

“You slept okay?” he asks Felicity. He’d like this conversation to be private, but his mother is ten feet away and paying close attention.

“That bed is heaven,” Felicity answers with a little moan that does something to him. He wants so, so badly to kiss her, to wrap himself around her sleepy warmth, to take her back to that heavenly bed and keep her there. Safe and warm. _And his_. 

It’s sudden, this realization that he wants her -- that what he feels for her isn’t just desire, but a protective affection that leaves him unable to deny the reality that he has strong feelings for Felicity. Not just friendship, not just lust, but _feelings_.

It’s jarring. But more than that, it’s _unwelcome_ , because he can’t have her. For multiple reasons. 

The toaster pops, startling him out of his thoughts, and he realizes that they’ve been standing there _gazing_ at each other, with his mother observing and no doubt analyzing every moment. 

He feels strangely exposed, caught out.

But it occurs to him that the cover story Felicity set in motion is out in the world. Hell, it may even be in the press by now, this idea that he and Felicity are _something_. He’s still not sure that this is the best course of action, the best way to protect her, but the train has left the station. He hates what this will do to her, what people will assume about her. And if he can’t keep the public at large from speculating about the precise nature of their relationship, about _Felicity_ , he will damn well protect her from that kind of judgment from his family.

So Oliver piles the toast onto her plate, carrying it with one hand, while he reaches for her with the other. Felicity’s eyes go wide when he gently clasps her hand in his and tugs her toward the table, toward his mother. 

“Mom,” Oliver says, placing her plate beside his, and then straightening up to look his mother in the eye. “I’d like to formally introduce you to my girlfriend, Felicity Smoak.”

Felicity’s hand convulses his grip, but she doesn’t otherwise react. 

Across the table, however, Moira Queen turns narrowed eyes on Felicity and says, “Girlfriend. Is that so?”

& & &

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

In the Queen mansion’s tastefully appointed dining room, a long, awkward moment of silence lingers as Felicity tries to come up with a response. It’s difficult, though, because she’s tired, disoriented, a tiny bit intimidated, and _not_ appropriately caffeinated.

Oh, and also, Moira’ Queen has quite clearly expressed blatant disbelief that _Felicity Smoak_ could possibly be Oliver’s girlfriend. 

Felicity really does struggle for a reasonable response. But in addition to all of the _other_ stuff going on in her head, it’s possible she’s also still just a _little_ bit stuck on hearing Oliver say she’s his girlfriend; on Oliver telling _his mother_ that she’s his girlfriend. 

It’s not _true_ ; she knows it’s not. But it’s still a little much hearing him say it. 

Oh, God, how are they going to pull off this cover story if she goes rigid and daydream-y every time he references their relationship? Their _fake_ relationship. 

That, to be fair to her, was _supposed_ to be an implied, secret friends-with-benefits-on-horizontal-surfaces-at-the-club-type thing, and _not_ a let-me-introduce-you-to-my-mother-over-breakfast-on-fine-china kind of thing. Felicity’s gaze zeroes in on the plates -- yeah, that is _totally_ fine china, and she’s in _way_ over her head.

Or -- maybe just stuck in some kind of parallel world, because she refuses to grant the premise that all of this wealth and finely carved wooden furniture and _snootiness_ makes the Queens better than her.

Oliver’s hand on Felicity’s back nudges her towards her chair and she drops into it, nearly spilling some of her coffee in the process. “Um,” she manages, so very eloquently. “Yes. That’s me. Oliver’s girlfriend.”

Moira Queen lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow, and it conveys all the disbelief and disapproval Felicity can handle. 

“More juice?” Oliver asks, and when Felicity glances at him, he’s giving his mother a very Arrow-y face. Without thinking, she reaches over and lays her hand his thigh, trying to calm him, to keep him from screwing up his relationship with his mother over a lie Felicity told to save herself. But the moment she touches him, Oliver’s head snaps around and their gazes catch and hold. And _why_ is she touching his thigh? His very hard, muscular thigh. 

Before she can figure out how to gracefully withdraw her hand, Oliver’s face softens the way it usually does when he’s looking at her, and she manages to smile at him. “Juice sounds good,” she says lamely. He reaches for the crystal carafe and pours some orange juice for her. “Thanks,” she adds softly. Her hand is still on his leg, and she feels trapped -- she wants to snatch her hand back, because touching him is dangerously kind of awesome? But she also doesn’t want him to think touching him affects her, since they’re apparently all-in on the fake relationship, which will require at least some touching.

Oliver replaces the carafe, then gives her a small but genuine smile, and it makes her heart jump a little in reaction. This is _such_ a bad idea.

“If I may,” Moira says, interrupting their strange little moment, “how long has this been going on?”

Oliver’s muscle tenses beneath her hand. His mother’s phrasing is purposeful, Felicity knows. Moira vehemently disapproves of this (pretend!) relationship, and is making no effort to disguise that fact. Felicity is more than a little hurt and offended by this dismissal of her as a possibility for Oliver. 

But mostly? She is defiant, because she is the smartest person in basically any room she’s in, and she is kind and she tries to be thoughtful, and she will not be made to feel _less than_. 

So she lifts her chin and says, “We’ve been friends since last fall. We met not long after he was rescued from Lian Yu.” She _wants_ to say more, to reference the things Oliver has told her over the years as some kind of proof in the face of Moira’s skepticism, but his secrets are his to tell. Or to keep. Which he does _far_ too often. 

Moira’s mouth tightens, but before she can respond, Oliver adds, “We’ve been... seeing each other for a while. Since I got back from my trip.”

Felicity just _barely_ stifles a snort. Because his _trip_ makes it sound like he jetted off to the Mediterranean for a few months, instead of slinking off for a five month reprise of his role as broody caveman. Oliver’s hand lands atop hers, tangling her fingers with his and squeezing. She supposes it’s meant to be a warning, but mostly it just feels like she’s holding hands with Oliver Queen. 

She definitely doesn’t hate it, which makes her very worried.

Her free hand snatches her coffee mug from the table, and she takes a long, fortifying sip. This plan of hers was _definitely_ a mistake. Though, actually, _her_ plan involved way fewer awkward family meals, so this particular mistake is most definitely _Oliver’s_ fault.

She can feel Moira’s _and_ Oliver’s eyes on her, and she stubbornly stares at the coffee in her cup. She’s not going to speak, because if she starts talking, God only knows what will come tumbling out of her mouth, considering she’s mildly terrified and only half-caffeinated. 

“Well,” Moira says finally, “I must admit I’m quite surprised to hear this, Oliver.” Felicity jerks her head up. Moira’s eyes are on her son, her expression unreadable. But definitely not warm or happy or welcoming. So okay then. Fine. Felicity knows when she’s not wanted, and it’s not like she expects everyone to like her. She’ll just hurry up and finish her food and be on her merry way. “Though,” Moira adds, turning that laser focus onto Felicity, “I guess it does explain your promotion.”

“Mother,” Oliver warns.

“I’m not sure I would consider it a promotion,” Felicity remarks, then feels her cheeks flush red. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being an EA. I’m just... _not_ one. My skills are more valuable applied elsewhere.” Her eyes go wide, and she is about to backpedal about _not those kinds of skills_ , when Oliver squeezes her hand to get her attention, then leans in and kisses her temple. “What?” she breathes, grateful for the interruption, and more than a little surprised by the affection.

The _pretend_ affection, she reminds herself. All of this is for show. And she needs to get used to the fact that Oliver’s fake boyfriend persona includes sweet forehead kisses. That’s not at all going to be a problem.

“Felicity agreed to become my EA,” Oliver tells his mother, in a firm, warning tone that Felicity has heard quite a lot, “because I couldn’t do this by myself, and she is the smartest person at the company.” He lets his declaration stand in the silence, taking another bite of his breakfast. Then he squeezes the hand he’s _still_ holding and adds, “We’ve kept the nature of our relationship a secret to protect Felicity from exactly these kinds of unfair and untrue assumptions.”

Moira remains unimpressed, if her slightly disapproving expression is anything to go by. “Oliver, I’m concerned about this,” she pauses minutely, “relationship. Has it occurred to you that the assistant to the CEO has access to almost all of QC’s secrets?”

And with that, Felicity has officially had enough. Because she can begrudgingly ignore the rumors about her position in Oliver’s life, and she’s not Moira’s biggest fan so she can probably learn to ignore her open distaste for Oliver and Felicity’s relationship, but she is a _good_ person. 

She tosses her napkin onto the table and stands, the chair protesting as it skids backwards. “I’m not whatever you think I am,” she tells Moira, and she _hates_ that her voice is shaking. “I’m not using Oliver for access. In fact, I’m not _using_ him at all.” Felicity pauses, because -- _isn’t_ she? Not in the way Moira Queen thinks, maybe, but Felicity is using him all the same. 

Moira is watching her carefully. “I’m simply looking out for the company,” she says. “And for my son.”

“Mother,” Oliver starts, but Felicity talks right over him.

“I _definitely_ had nothing to do with the attack on QC,” she declares, drawing on her indignation. “Keeping me away from the efforts to reconstitute the security protocols is the worst decision the company made in reaction to the attack.” 

“Felicity,” Oliver says, reaching for her hand.

But she sidesteps him, keeping her eyes trained on Moira Queen. Because she’s probably never going to be allowed in the mansion again, so she might as well get it all out now. “I’m not trying to do anything but protect QC, and help Oliver. I’m sorry if you can’t understand our _relationship_ because you remember how he was when he was _Ollie_. He’s not that man anymore -- he’s kind-hearted and ethical, and he puts everyone else before himself, even when they don’t deserve it. And he needs people who can _see_ that when they look at him.” She takes a breath, already regretting having said so much. “I’m not really hungry, but thank you for the hospitality.” 

She turns, heading for the hallway, seeking safety from Moira Queen’s insinuations. A familiar hand on her arm stops her in place. “Felicity,” Oliver says. “Please--”

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, turning her watery gaze to him. He’s looking at her with soft, devastated eyes, and the last thing she wants to do is ever make him feel like that. “This was a mistake,” she decides. If they can’t even persuade Oliver’s mother that this is real -- how are they supposed to get anyone _else_ to believe them? “I’ll get a cab.”

His fingers tighten on her arm, trying to hold her in place. “Felicity--”

“Please let me go,” she whispers, her head tilted down, her hair screening her face from him. 

After a long moment, he relents, his fingers skimming down her arm before falling away. 

Felicity turns and heads for the stairs.

& & &

By the time Felicity gathers her things and leaves, Oliver has texted Dig and made reservations at the Starling Grand for Felicity. He doesn’t try to talk to her, or stop her; he simply texts her the information once she’s in the cab, and hopes like hell she doesn’t stubbornly decide to go home instead. But she doesn’t answer his text, so he has no way of knowing where she is, or what she’s planning to do. 

Or how she’s feeling after his mother’s innuendos and accusations.

Oliver pushes his worry aside and retreats to his room. Because he is _done_ talking to his mother about this, and he should head into QC to check on the internal investigation. Except there’s some small part of him hopelessly fixated on Felicity’s words, on the way she’d described him to his mother.

 _He’s kind-hearted and ethical, and he puts everyone else before himself_.

Does she really see him that way, so at odds with what he knows to be the truth? Because Oliver is trying so hard to be better, but he knows that he is a selfish man. He always has been, and it would be convenient to blame it on being raised in a consequence-free bubble, but five years of hell hasn’t seemed to have burned it out of him. And that’s why he knows that it doesn’t _matter_ how he feels about Felicity -- he can’t possibly have her. 

He won’t allow himself; he will not be selfish about her.

Diggle’s waiting beside the Bentley when Oliver emerges from the house. His bemused expression shifts to curiosity as he watches Oliver approach. “Where’s Felicity?” 

“She left.” Oliver folds himself into the backseat, pointedly ignoring Dig’s followup. He’s not sure he can explain what’s going on without dredging up his own turmoil. Because he’s finally recognized that the unnamed _affection_ he’s always had for Felicity is not just simple affection. It’s more; a _lot_ more.

And it’s definitely more than he can deal with right now, _especially_ considering everything else swirling around them. His piss poor timing and his suddenly obvious desires don’t matter at all right now; Felicity’s safety is and will _always_ be more important than his feelings. 

And he’s _really_ not in the mood to talk about any of this.

Thankfully, Dig is quiet while he settles into the driver’s seat and turns on the car; in fact, he doesn’t speak until they’re a couple miles away from the mansion. “You gonna tell me where Felicity went when she left?”

But Oliver doesn’t know, and that’s yet _another_ sore spot with him right now -- Felicity’s mad at him. Or not _mad_ exactly, but she’s upset. And he _hates_ when she’s upset. It makes him want to pummel whatever the cause of her upset is -- except this particular time, the cause is some combination of Oliver himself and his mother’s ability to wield a verbal scalpel. Oliver closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “I called the Grand and got her a suite, but she’s... not answering my texts.”

Dig frowns. “How’d you go from fake-sleepovers to not speaking to each other in less than twelve hours?” Then Dig’s gaze snaps to his in the rearview mirror, his tone threatening when he says, “Oliver, you better not have slept with her.”

“Hey,” Oliver protests sharply, feeling the anger and the uncertainty boil up in his chest in search of a target. Dig’s distrust cuts him deep. And, yes, Dig’s aware of some of Oliver’s more... questionable decisions, but Oliver had assumed his friend would trust him with Felicity. He would never hurt her -- not intentionally. 

But Dig just huffs his disbelief, muttering, “Yeah, like that’s such an unbelievable possibility.” 

“Nothing happened,” Oliver growls. It’s the absolute truth. Nothing _had_ happened, not the way Diggle means. In fact, Oliver had barely touched her once they were in the house. 

But it’s also a lie, because their interactions had altered _something_ between them, and Oliver has no idea how to fix it. Or even if it’s possible -- especially if they’re going to be playacting at being a couple.

And some stubborn, selfish part of him isn’t even sure he’d want to fix this new _awareness_ if he could. 

“Then why’d she leave?” Dig asks, but his tone is less accusatory this time.

Oliver sighs. “My mother was... unwelcoming at breakfast.” An understatement, but the subject of Moira Queen has always been a difficult one between him and Diggle, and he knows Dig will drop it. The rest of the ride passes in a slightly uncomfortable silence; Oliver takes advantage of the quiet to skim through his inbox.

When they reach QC, Oliver pauses before stepping out of the car. “Will you check in with Felicity?”

“She’s okay.” Dig lifts his phone to indicate that she’d texted him. Oliver is ashamed of the flare of jealousy he feels that Felicity is ignoring him but texting Dig. He doesn’t _begrudge_ them their friendship; in fact, he’s self-aware enough to know that he is a difficult man, and he knows they need something... _easier_ in their lives. Easier friendships. Comfortable friendships. So he’s not _jealous_ of that. It’s just that he occasionally feels excluded. A feeling that is not helped when Dig adds, “I’ll talk to her, Oliver. Don’t worry about it.”

Oliver manages a nod. “Thanks.” And if he slams the door behind him, well, sometimes he doesn’t know his own strength.

When Oliver reaches his office, he ignores the way his stomach drops at the sight of Felicity’s empty desk, heading instead for the board room. Isabel and several board members are there, discussing the investigation. She spins her chair to face him, legs crossed, leaning back in apparent ease.

“Oliver, so nice of you to join us.” The smile Isabel gives him is cold and somehow triumphant, and he doesn’t know how he ever thought her beautiful. “I figured you’d be busy with your girlfriend this morning.”

He presses his lips together, swallowing down his first retort. She’s goading him, and she’s damnably good at it, but he will not take the bait. Not when it’s Felicity’s life and freedom at stake. He takes a slow breath in, then, “What do we know today that we didn’t know yesterday?”

Isabel tilts her head. “Felicity didn’t give you any details last night?” she asks sweetly. “After all, she’s the one who knows the most about this, right?”

“Isabel,” he warns, then turns to Fernando Mendez, one of the few long-time board members who has almost always treated Oliver with respect and professionalism. “Are the police sending anyone to update us? Have we confirmed that the...” he shrugs, “ _leak_ is appropriately plugged?”

Fernando dips his chin in acknowledgement. “Captain Stein said the FBI will have someone from their cyber crimes unit here today. That person will be updating us as the situation develops.”

Oliver narrows his eyes, remembering Felicity’s concern over whether access to the confidential information had actually been blocked. “And the leak?”

“The hacker responsible for this is quite talented,” Isabel says, her tone cutting. “The virus is complex, and keeps morphing.”

Stunned, Oliver steps forward. “Are you saying that QC is _still_ compromised? That our confidential information and trade secrets may be exposed to this hacker right now?”

Isabel gives no ground. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Oliver glances around; everyone in the room has that same pinched tension in their face, paired with a certain air of fatalism. He shakes his head. “So what the hell are we _doing_ about this?”

“Wladkowski is--”

“It’s been 24 hours,” Oliver cuts in, his words clipped and angry. “Get someone in. Hire someone.”

There’s a general uproar in response, voices talking over each other, highlighted by Isabel’s angry expression as she glares at him. 

Oliver does not give a shit. He raises his voice. “I want a plan on my desk in an hour.”

He turns on his heel and leaves, feeling frustrated on multiple fronts. His mood is murderous as he turns on his computer, opens his inbox. He goes through emails, firing off clipped, angry responses until the tension in his frame is too much, too insistent to let him sit still any longer. 

He should stay here and oversee the project, but this is not his field of expertise, which adds a layer of uncertainty. And the person he _would_ turn to for assistance is not here right now, which is mostly his fault. He feels like he’s fucking up everything he touches. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Felicity’s stiff shoulders as she walked out of the Mansion, and she’s _still_ not answering his texts. 

He needs to hit something. He needs a physical release of all of this tension. He needs a target to confront. He needs--

“Oliver,” Dig says, standing near Felicity’s empty desk. 

There’s something in his voice that demands Oliver’s attention. So he ducks his chin, gathering the last shreds of his composure, then approaches his friend. “Yeah?”

“Can you step away for a bit?” Dig asks. He’s tense, his mouth in a grim line as he waits for Oliver to decide.

Oliver glances back at the board room, and the _last_ thing he wants to do is stay here and argue. So he jerks a nod. “Yeah. What’d she find?” 

“Not yet,” Dig answers, turning and heading for the elevator bank without elaborating, and Oliver reflexively glances around. Isabel is in the doorway to the conference room, watching him with a disapproving look.

“I’ll be back,” he tells her, voice clipped. “I want that plan waiting for me.” When the elevator doors slide closed behind them, Oliver turns to Dig. “What--?”

“Felicity found something,” Dig interrupts. “She texted this.” Dig holds up his phone so Oliver can see. 

His heart gives a little lurch at the contact picture -- it’s Felicity mid-laugh, eyes bright behind her glasses, dimples on display -- and then he reads her words.

 _I think I’ve got it. You know, the thing. It’s bad. I’m gonna try to fix it_.

Oliver’s mouth drops open. “She’s -- _what_?” Because Felicity is supposed to be somewhere safe, cooling off and _maybe_ doing a bit of research. Careful, untraceable research. She’s _not_ supposed to be digging into the middle of this mess.

“I know,” Dig answers tightly. “She’s not answering her phone.”

Oliver whips out his own phone, scrolling to her name, tapping his much more staid contact picture for Felicity, ignoring the stray thought that he should have pictures of Felicity other than her QC ID photograph. It rings five times before her familiar cheerful voice says, “ _Sorry I can’t answer your call right now! Please leave--_ ”

He hangs up and redials. Same outcome. “Where is she?” Oliver demands, even as he types out a quick message to her: _What did you find? Please call me_.

“She checked into the Starling Grand,” Diggle answers. The elevator doors open, and they walk to the car quickly and quietly, pausing their conversation while there are other people around. 

As soon as Oliver pulls the car door closed, he asks, “Did you talk to her?”

“She was fine an hour ago, Oliver,” he says. “I offered to stop by with coffee, but she said she was gonna catch a nap.”

Anger and fear flood Oliver. “And instead she dug into exactly the thing she shouldn’t,” he surmises.

“I’m surprised she waited this long,” Dig responds, sounding more than a little upset himself. “That girl will do anything for you.”

Oliver startles at the suggestion. “For _me_? Dig, what are you talking about?” Because Oliver’s entire focus is on keeping Felicity safe from whatever havoc this attack is intended to wreak. He wants to protect his family’s legacy, of course, but that’s nothing in the face of Felicity being investigated by the police and the FBI.

“Wading into this can only compromise her; _she’s_ the target of the investigation,” Dig answers. “But she wants to protect you and yours, protect the company.”

“That’s not...” Oliver trails off, weighing Diggle’s words. “Dig, I don’t want that. I want her safe, period. I don’t want the company at the expense of _Felicity_. I don’t want _anything_ at her expense.” The words are true, truer than a lot of things he’s said lately. Truer in more ways than those he’s comfortable with, actually, and he turns his gaze to the scenery blurring past to avoid any knowing looks from Dig.

But Dig doesn’t push; in fact, his tone is less aggressive when he answers, “I know that, Oliver.”

Diggle’s driving fast, and they reach the hotel more quickly than Oliver expected. The two men are out of the car and through the lobby, and Oliver jabs the elevator call button. “What floor?”

“Fourteenth,” Dig answers, only a half-step behind Oliver as they walk onto the elevator. 

The muzak is awful, the saxophone scratching along Oliver’s every nerve as they wait, impatiently, to reach her floor. Her room is at the end of the hall, and he very nearly breaks into a jog just to get there faster.

He knocks sharply, then tries the door handle, feeling a little bit of relief when it’s locked. No signs of forced entry or physical danger, but he doesn’t relax until he hears her call out, “Who is it?”

“Open the door, Felicity,” Oliver orders. 

There’s a long pause, and then the tumblers shift and she pulls the door open. He scans her quickly, swallowing hard against the way his body reacts to her in leggings and his faded grey t-shirt that she must’ve taken from the mansion.

Oliver lets his breath out in a relieved huff, then stiffens. “Felicity, what’s wrong?”

Because she’s breathing in big, uneven gasps, tears unnoticed on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice wavering.

Oliver reaches out, and she takes a defensive step back, freezing him in place with a mixture of hurt and concern. “Felicity,” he says, his tone much softer now, as soothing as he can make it through his panic. “Please, just -- tell us what happened?”

Her shoulders sag and she sniffles, looking back and forth between Oliver and Dig. “I’m so sorry,” she says again. “The attack on QC -- it’s--”

Diggle shifts beside him. “It’s what, Felicity?”

She nods once, her back straightening. Her voice is full of fear and sorrow when she finally answers. “The attack on QC is my fault. It’s my virus.”

& & &

Felicity watches Oliver and Dig warily, expecting to see judgment and resentment in their eyes after her confession that this entire situation is her fault. Not just dragging Oliver into an insane cover story, no -- Felicity is _also_ responsible for the attack that necessitated the cover story in the first place.

Which basically means the police are _right_ to blame her. 

But when she looks at Oliver and Diggle, instead of suspicion and blame, they just look confused. 

Dig crosses his arms. “Felicity, what are you talking about?” He grimaces, glancing down the hotel hallway. “And can we talk about it inside?”

“Oh. Yes, sure, of course.” Felicity steps back, turning and heading for the familiarity of the computers, even though they are _currently_ betraying her. 

The room Oliver reserved for her is actually a suite, which is just so _Oliver_ that she could punch him. He’s much more comfortable with gestures than with words, and she’s pretty sure this is some sort of apology for his mother. Not that it’s his responsibility to apologize for Moira Queen who, Felicity is sure, meant all of what she said and stands elegantly and unflappably by it. 

Still, the room’s nice, even if it’s far more than she needs and makes her feel a little bit like a kept woman. Without the sex. So more of a _fake_ kept woman, which... is actually kind of the cover story, so maybe this ridiculous room is perfect.

It’s... possible she’s spiraling a bit.

Felicity tells herself to get a grip as she leads them past the unreasonably large bedroom, hidden behind stylish pocket doors that stand partly open. They reach the large seating area, furnished with an L-shaped couch, a low wooden end table, and a very large TV and Felicity just... kind of stops walking.

This day has been a _lot_ so far, and it’s barely noon.

“Nice place,” Dig remarks, and when Felicity glances back, Oliver is glaring at Dig for reasons she doesn’t quite understand.

“It is really nice,” Felicity agrees. “A plain old room would’ve been fine, Oliver.” When he looks at her, the harsh expression on his face fades into something that looks a little bit like hurt. “I mean, this is a lot,” she adds hastily. “But it’s beautiful.” She turns away from the confusing expression on his face and ends up staring at the laptop on the big writing desk. _His_ laptop. She realizes she hadn’t exactly explained this part to Oliver when she stormed off in an embarrassed huff. Flushing, she turns back to meet Oliver’s gaze. “Um, I borrowed your laptop a little bit.”

She can tell from the way his mouth twitches that he wants to smile in response. But he doesn’t. “A little?” he echoes.

She shrugs. “You said I could borrow it, so technically--”

“It’s fine, Felicity,” he reassures her, his voice soft. 

She plucks at the large grey t-shirt she’s wearing -- _his_ t-shirt -- and adds, “Borrowed a shirt, too.”

When she looks up at him, there’s a long moment of _awareness_ between them. It freezes her in place, the way his cheeks flush when his eyes drop to her body. 

“That’s fine, too,” he says, his voice rough. Then he shifts, his fingers twitching together by his thigh, and whatever slight comfort she took from their connection flees. His next words bring all of her stress, all of her fear, all of her guilt barreling back to the forefront of her mind. “What do you mean, this is your virus?”

Felicity takes a moment to breathe past the tightness in her throat, to try to tamp down her roiling emotions. Because she needs to explain this, and she needs to do it calmly. 

“In college,” she says, and then stops. Because no matter how hard she tries to push it down, all the old pain and regret is still there. Losing Cooper, it shouldn’t hurt this much anymore, should it? She wonders if it’s the guilt that makes the grief inescapable. “I created an x-axis bionumetric algorithm.”

Oliver blinks. 

“A _what_ now?” Diggle asks.

“A-- a--” She chokes over the word, remembering Cooper’s gleeful way of saying it, like she’d created something wonderful-- “a _supervirus_ ,” she says, her distaste clear. “But I didn’t mean to-- I didn’t want _any_ of it--” She stops short, her throat tightening. 

Her heart is beating too fast, her lungs straining for air, and she blinks at the sudden spots in her vision.

Oliver and Diggle press a little closer, until they’re standing in an awkward huddle, her hip snug against the writing desk. She tells herself to calm down, to explain, but her chest just keeps getting tighter and tighter with panic. She realizes she’s got her hands pressed to her chest, clawing a little at her clothes, but it’s like her body is operating independently of her mind, ignoring her commands.

“Breathe,” Oliver says. “Felicity, please. Take a breath. Slow down.”

She nods a little frantically, but has only limited success following his direction. In fact, she’s pretty sure her brain is about to give up the ghost, and the last thing she wants to do is faint in front of them like some sort of... _fainting goat_. She chokes out a laugh, but it sounds edge-y and wrong, and kind of more like a sob?

Then John is there, the way he’d been when her long dormant panic attacks resurfaced after the Undertaking. He takes her hand and presses it to his broad chest, letting her feel his slow breaths, giving her something to try to match. He’s talking to her softly, counting down on the exhales, helping her through the worst of it.

It takes a bit of time for her frantic heartbeat to settle, but it works, and she gives Dig a small but genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll just…” Oliver clears his throat and steps back. “I’ll get you some water.” 

When Felicity looks over at him, Oliver’s expression is strangely shuttered. He smiles and turns away, leaving Felicity to shift her confused gaze to Diggle. “What’s going on?”

Dig gives her that look that says _you know better_. “He’s worried about you. And things didn’t go that well at QC, either,” Dig adds with an expressive eyebrow twitch.

She nods, feeling that horrible, gnawing pit in her stomach again. “They can’t get rid of the virus, can they?” she guesses. Because she’s just _that_ good. Damn it.

“No,” Oliver answers, reappearing with a bottle of water from the small fridge. “They said it keeps morphing.” He twists the top off and holds it out to her. “Drink some. It’ll help.”

“Oliver, that’s a $5 bottle of water!” she protests. He twitches one shoulder in the barest of shrugs, and she rolls her eyes, accepting the incredibly overpriced water. “Billionaires,” she mutters, bringing the bottle to her lips. But he’s right; it does help some.

Once she takes a few swallows of water, Oliver fixes his gaze on her. “Can you please explain about this virus?”

The sick pit in her stomach is more of an all-consuming sinkhole of dread at this point. But she’s always tried to be brave, to face the music, so she takes one last steadying breath and leans back against the desk, curling her hands around the edges for a little bit of support. “I created the virus,” she admits softly. “Just to see if I could. We thought-- _I_ thought we were hacktivists. You know, like Anonymous? Hacking for the greater good, exposing well-hidden criminal behavior, that kind of thing.”

“Okay,” Dig says slowly, like he’s turning over her words in his mind. He and Oliver are both incredibly smart men, but technology isn’t something either of them pay much attention to. “Did you use it back then?”

“No,” she says. Then she grimaces. “Well, my -- I had a boyfriend, and he encouraged me, just to test it out.” She swallows down the familiar regret. “I-- I got into the Department of Education.” She makes herself keep going, keep talking, even though they’re kind of looking at her like they don’t recognize her right now, and it makes her stomach churn. “Just to take a screenshot,” she defends. “Just to show that I _could_. I was _never_ going to--” She stops herself, because her intentions didn’t matter then, and they sure don’t matter now.

“What happened?” Oliver asks. Demands, maybe. The softness in his expression and in his voice are mostly gone; he’s got that hard, calculating, problem-solving thing going on. She _knows_ that’s how Oliver reacts to threats. She _knows_ this; she’d expected this exact reaction from that horrible moment where she recognized her own code. 

Except this time, _she’s_ the threat; or at least, she created the threat. And seeing that distancing look turned on her? She never expected it to sting quite this badly. 

“My boyfriend, he started deleting student loan records, deleting the _debts_ , basically,” Felicity explains quietly. “I cut the connection, but--” This part is so hard, even years later. She gulps in a breath, continues, “The FBI, they-- They showed up a few days later. They arrested Cooper, because we’d done the hack in his room, and even though the DNS wasn’t configured, the subdnodes _were_ , and he didn’t _listen_ to me when-- The details aren’t important,” she decides, her gaze downcast. “It was my fault then, and it’s my fault now.”

“Felicity,” Dig says, stepping forward, placing his hands on her shoulders to hold her attention. “Did you put this virus onto the QC servers?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Then the attack on QC is _not_ your fault.”

She dips her chin, unable to hold his gaze. Because she understands his point _logically_ , but she can’t seem to hold back the crushing wave of guilt she feels anyway. “I created it. It’s my... monster.” She adds softly, “I think that makes me a monster.”

He smiles down at her, squeezing her shoulders. “Felicity, nothing on this earth could make you a monster,” he tells her. When she nods, he steps back.

“I’m not sure I can stop it,” she whispers. Because she’s damn good, yes, but that’s precisely the problem -- this is like fighting _herself_ ; like battling her own genius. Her gaze shifts to Oliver, who is watching her with a closed off expression. “I’ll try,” she promises. “I’m _sure_ I didn’t put firewalls on _all_ the traceable nodes” she adds, mostly to herself. “Except of _course_ I did.”

Oliver shakes his head. “You need to stay away from this, Felicity.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he talks over her. “I mean it. I’m not sure what kind of...” He grimaces, “digital fingerprints are on this virus, but if they connected it to your boyfriend, they can connect it to you.”

She feels the panic threatening again, and focuses very hard to push it back. “Okay.”

Something shifts, softens between them, and when Oliver moves closer, when he speaks, he’s using that kind, warm tone that makes her heart do flips. “Felicity, I’m not going to--” 

The shrill ringtone of Oliver’s phone interrupts, and he sighs in frustration. When he pulls the phone out of his pocket, he seems confused, but answers anyway. “Laurel?”

Felicity’s heart drops, and she has to turn away to recover. It’s not that Laurel’s role in Oliver’s life is a _surprise_. Obviously. But she’s let herself get a little lost in this... fake _thing_. Which is really dangerous, and she needs to _not_. Because Oliver isn’t hers; he’s doing her a favor, and she needs to take a big step back and remember who they are to each other _really_. 

There’s a short silence from Oliver, where Felicity can hear the sound of Laurel’s voice, but not the words. She focuses on the framed black and white photograph on the wall, studying the acute angles and harsh lines of the pictured suspension bridge.

Then Oliver is talking quickly, agreeing with Laurel about _something_. When he hangs up, there’s a long, tense moment before Diggle speaks: “And how is the Assistant District Attorney?”

Felicity stares stubbornly at the photograph of the bridge, wondering if it’s the one in Boston, or another, similar bridge. 

Oliver sighs audibly. “She wants to talk about the attack on QC.”

Felicity makes herself turn back around. “You should go,” she answers brightly. 

He watches her closely, and gives a tiny shake of his head before he says, “Felicity, we need to talk about--”

“She might have information that’ll help us stop the attack,” Felicity interrupts. “You should go.”

Oliver stares at her for a long moment, and she can _see_ his internal struggle before he nods shortly. “Fine.”

She forces a smile. “Good.”

He tilts his head towards the borrowed laptop. “Please stop with the research.”

“We need to figure out what’s going on,” she protests. Because sitting idly by just does not appeal to her at all; she’ll go stir crazy.

“Let me check in at QC,” Oliver says. “Get the latest update. Please, just -- Please stop for now.”

It grates on her, but she understands how precarious her situation is at the moment. So she agrees. _Reluctantly_.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Oliver declares, and when Dig moves to follow him towards the door, Oliver argues. “Stay with Felicity. I’m just meeting Laurel at Buzzzzz.” He glances back at Felicity and gives her a small smile. “I’ll bring back coffee.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Felicity alone with the burning need to fix what she broke, and the very strong desire to avoid the conversation she’s _pretty_ sure Dig wants to have. “Are you hungry?” she asks. “We could order room service.”

Dig raises a single, judgmental eyebrow. 

Felicity sighs and flops onto the couch, because she knows what’s coming next.

“We need to talk about you and Oliver.”

& & &

Oliver pushes into Buzzzzz feeling more than a little off-kilter. There’s a frustration, a hum of anxiety under his skin that he hasn’t been able to shake since first hearing about the attack on QC. And Laurel’s call, her request to talk -- it’s not making him feel any calmer.

When he scans the midday crowd, he spots Laurel at a small table by the windows. She’s beautiful and buttoned up, wearing a well-fitted navy suit over a grey top; when she sees him, she smiles and waves him over, indicating the coffee waiting for him.

“Ollie,” she greets, tilting her face to accept a kiss on the cheek. She smells familiar, the soft floral notes of her perfume reminding him of a hundred dates that started just like this. He’s more than a little surprised to realize the memories aren’t laced with regret anymore, just a fond nostalgia for their younger selves.

“Laurel,” he answers, settling into his seat. “Thanks for ordering.” He takes a sip of his black coffee, hiding a wince when the sugary sweetness hits his tongue. He still likes sweets on occasion, but his time on the island had drastically changed his palette, and he no longer adds sugar to anything. Placing the mug back down, he gives her his full attention. “You wanted to talk about the attack on QC?”

Laurel’s warm smile fades, her brow pinched with worry. “Ollie, this investigation is serious. The SCPD is working with the feds.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Do you understand the sentencing guidelines?” she presses. “I know you’re friends with this Felicity, Ollie, but she could be looking at 7, 8 years in federal prison, depending on aggravating factors.”

Oliver bristles. “She didn’t do it, Laurel. Felicity had nothing to do with the attack.” He is getting pretty tired of making this same argument and getting the same disbelieving reactions. He knows his mother and Laurel are both operating from a place of concern for _him_ ; he appreciates their support more than he can find words to say. But Felicity deserves this kind of loyalty far more than he ever has.

Laurel’s expression betrays a lot of skepticism and maybe a little bit of pity. “Ollie, from what I’ve seen, there’s compelling evidence that links Felicity Smoak to the attack.”

He leans closer, needing additional clarification now that he knows Felicity’s connection to the virus. “To the attack itself, or just to the virus?” Because if this is centering on Felicity because she _created_ the virus, that’s bad but probably surmountable; but if they’ve focused on her because they think they have evidence of her actually attacking QC, well, that’s a big problem. 

Laurel’s eyes go wide and she blinks at him. “Ollie,” she breathes, “if you’re involved in this in _any_ way, you need to stop talking to me, _right_ now.”

He slams his palm on the table hard enough to rattle their mugs and draw the attention of nearby patrons. Oliver looks away, staring blindly out the window for a beat to get his frustration back under control. “Felicity is innocent,” he tells Laurel, his voice low and certain. “And so am I. I have no idea who’s targeting QC or why, but it’s _not_ Felicity.” 

Laurel sits back, evaluating him as she takes a sip of her coffee. Her hand shakes a bit when she lowers the mug to the table. “Ollie, I’m an officer of the court and I work for the DA. I need you to keep that in mind when I say the rest of this, okay?”

Oliver stills, watching her just as closely and as warily as she’s watching him. “Yeah.” He nods. “Okay.”

“I can’t really help you, I can’t represent you, and the FBI conflicted me off the case as soon as they learned that we’re close.” Laurel pauses, weighing her words carefully. “They’re investigating Felicity, for good reason.” She lifts a hand to stay his protest. “They know you don’t have the technical skills to have done this. Or the motive. But, Ollie, they’re going to look at her promotion, at your friendship, and they’re going to try to prove or disprove you being,” she pauses, her mouth twisting with distaste, “involved.”

Oliver’s honestly not sure if Laurel means involved in the crime, or involved _with Felicity_. He definitely doesn’t know what to say to Laurel about his pretend relationship with Felicity -- or their _real_ relationship, actually -- so he chooses to focus on the QC attack. “Laurel, I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me about the case, but I know all of this already.”

Her eyes blaze with irritation, and he remembers that look; it means she’s frustrated that he’s completely missing what she’s trying to tell him. They’ve had a million fights start just this way, and Oliver braces himself for detonation. He’s surprised by the even, calm tone in her voice when she says, “They’re going to question you, did you know that?”

Oliver lets his eyes drift shut, pressing his lips together. He’d kind of figured, but the prospect of another thorny conversation with the cops does not leave him feeling particularly comfortable. He’s a skilled liar, but avoiding the attention of the police in the first place is a far safer course of action.

After a moment, he meets her gaze again. “I didn’t, but I’m not surprised.”

She reaches across the table, laying her hand on his. “The FBI has resources that the SCPD doesn’t. Please, just -- be careful.”

“I will,” he promises. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Laurel.”

She squeezes his hand and lets go, settling back. “What are friends for?”

Oliver shifts his gaze, staring down at the overly sweet coffee in his mug. He takes another long sip, keeping his face neutral. He’s not sure it’s fair to ask Laurel for anything other than what she’s offered, but she’s also the only person he knows who can give him initial guidance in this area. So he puts the mug back on the table and looks up. 

“Is there anything you’d recommend for when I’m being questioned,” he begins carefully, “any way to make sure I don’t jeopardize Felicity?”

Laurel doesn’t answer right away, fixing him with an incisive look instead. “Ollie, let me be very clear: your friend is facing significant jail time. If the feds can find evidence linking you to her actions, _you_ could be brought up on charges, too. Criminal charges with _real_ consequences.”

“Laurel--”

“Let me finish,” she interrupts, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “The only person you need to be thinking about when the agents are interrogating you is _you_ ,” Laurel declares. 

Oliver shakes his head, objecting to the premise of her statement. “Laurel--”

“You need to answer questions about Felicity and her role in all of this _truthfully_.”

“I can’t refuse to answer?” he asks.

She’s staring at him like he’s some kind of puzzle now -- a problem she’d very much like to solve. “Get a good lawyer, and don’t say a word without your lawyer present -- that’s how you protect yourself. Your lawyer will tell you what I’m telling you: You can remain silent, and you should if what they’re asking you to say might incriminate _you_.” She leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. “As for your friend -- you’re not her priest or her therapist or her husband, Ollie. You have no grounds to refuse to answer.” 

Oliver leans forward, just a bit. “Would her husband have grounds?” he asks. “Some way to protect her?”

Laurel tilts her head. “There’s a testimonial privilege, yes. Why? Is she married? Is her husband involved in this?”

Oliver very pointedly ignores the strange churning in his gut at the thought of Felicity being married. “No,” he answers. “She’s not married. There’s no-- I was just curious.”

For a long, awkward moment, Oliver is convinced that Laurel is going to grill him on the subject. But she simply sighs and leans back a little in her chair. “Ollie, please listen to me on this,” she says. “The best thing you can do for her is make sure she gets a lawyer, too.” 

“Yeah,” he answers slowly. “Okay.” Because he appreciates Laurel’s advice on how to protect himself, but he doesn’t feel very comfortable pushing her for a way to shield Felicity. There’s too much history between Laurel and him, and he’s too conflicted over just what Felicity is or could be to him to keep pulling at this thread. “Listen, I should get back. Thank you, Laurel. Really.”

She smiles, but it’s reserved now, and he wonders how well she’s able to read him these days. “Of course,” Laurel says, wrapping her hands around her mug.

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the counter. “I need to grab coffee for Felicity and Dig, but then I can walk you somewhere?” he offers.

Laurel glances down at her cup, then grins at him before draining the rest. “I should get back to the office. I have transcripts to mark up.” She wrinkles her nose. “Thrilling pre-trial testimony about a car accident.”

Oliver manages to dredge up a smile for her. “Sounds fun.” 

They stand, and Oliver leans in to give her a hug. When she steps back, she lets one hand linger on his arm for a moment. “Good luck, Ollie. I hope you’re right about your friend,” she offers. 

He considers his options for a long moment, but he realizes that everything has already been set in motion; even if the cover story doesn’t hit the press, Laurel’s _father_ is already well aware of his supposed relationship with Felicity. So he shifts a little awkwardly and says, “She’s more than a friend, actually.” 

Laurel freezes, and for a brief moment, there’s something that looks like regret on her face. But she recovers quickly, offering him a smile that’s a bit forced. “Oh?” she says. “Then I definitely hope she didn’t do it, and that everything works out.”

Oliver touches her shoulder and leans in, pressing a farewell kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, Laurel.” 

When he straightens, she holds his gaze for a moment, then steps back, giving him a little wave. “Bye, Ollie.”

Oliver waves back, then turns to the counter to order three drinks to go -- coffee for Dig and Felicity, and an herbal tea for himself. As he stands by the espresso machine awaiting their drinks, he sifts through Laurel’s advice, returning again and again to something that’s right up there with the worst ideas he’s had in recent memory.

Because if he has any hope of maintaining minimum safe distance from Felicity now that he thinks he might be in love with her, marrying her to protect her as best he can from legal prosecution can’t _possibly_ be a good idea.

Can it?

& & &

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

Felicity drops her head back against the couch cushions and closes her eyes. “Dig,” she whines, “ _please_ , I love you for trying to protect me, but I promise that I’m _fine_.” It’s not entirely true, but he’s been giving her _that_ look off and on since the door closed behind Oliver. It’s that look that says he _knows_ she’s got a thing for Oliver and he feels bad about the situation they’re all in.

Except Felicity’s the one that put herself into this ridiculously awkward situation, and the _last_ thing she wants to do right now is _talk_ about it. Everything is just a little too much right now, which means her emotions are all over the place, and she is just not able to discuss things rationally.

“Felicity, I don’t mean to push,” Dig says gently. He’s sitting a couch cushion’s length away from her, and Oliver’s been gone long enough that they’re both kinda slouched down, melting into the pillows. Dig shifts a little, propping one foot on the coffee table. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling a little off-kilter about this situation.”

“Situation?” She repeats dryly, following his lead and putting her feet up -- only she’s wearing fuzzy turquoise slipper socks and not matte black combat boots. Sometimes it amazes her how close their friendships is, considering how very different they are. “You mean the part where my fake boyfriend is off on a date--”

“It’s _not_ a date,” he interjects, but she just keeps talking.

“--with Laurel, the love of his life, and--”

“She’s not the love of his life,” Dig remarks, but she talks louder.

“--I’m sitting here trying to figure out how a supervirus I wrote four years ago is suddenly _back_. And not just back,” she continues, her voice spiraling upwards as she gains momentum, and this is _exactly_ why she didn’t want to talk about it, except now that she’s started, she can’t seem to _stop_ , “but being used to attack QC, the place where I work, and the place where Isabel Rochev -- who, oh, wait, is _yet another_ gorgeous ex of my fake boyfriend, because of course she is! And--”

“Don’t think 20 minutes of hate sex counts as an _ex_ , Felicity.”

“--she’s targeting Oliver and his company...” Felicity trails off as Diggle’s words register, turning her head to give him a look. “ _Hate_ sex?”

Dig grimaces. “Well, he certainly has never _liked_ her.”

That’s true. And depressing.

“Still,” she protests, “hate sex sounds hot and angry, and I choose to believe that _encounter_ was a regrettable mess.” Felicity pauses, reconsidering. “Actually, I actively try _not_ to think about that encounter,” she admits. “I am _not_ a fan of Isabel. And not,” she presses on, holding up a hand to stay whatever comments Dig might have, “ _because_ of what happened in Russia, but because she is a vicious person who makes it very clear that she thinks I’m about as worthwhile as something she scraped off the bottom of her very fancy shoes. Which, yes, fine, it pains me to admit it, but she does have exceptional taste in shoes.” Felicity sighs, sinking further into the couch’s embrace. “That bitch,” she murmurs.

Beside her, Dig starts to laugh. 

“John!” she protests, honestly a little bit miffed at him for laughing at her. Because she’s feeling a little off-balance, what with Oliver off for coffee with his One True Love, Gorgeous Laurel, and she needs Diggle to remind her that it’s good. It’s great, actually, because she and Oliver? Are _friends_. Pretending at being more, but just friends.

And, yes, okay, she kissed him, and it was good. Maybe _really_ good. Definitely too short. But mostly just good. 

But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s fine. _She’s_ fine. But when she glances at Dig, he’s giving her _that look_ again, which is, somehow, _not_ patronizing. It’s just empathetic kindness, which is kind of John Diggle’s wheelhouse, and it’s enough to make her almost want to talk about this with him. _Almost_. 

Instead, she reaches over and pats Dig’s arm. “I’m fine,” she says. Totally fine.

“Felicity,” he answers, “all I’m saying is that it would be okay if you weren’t.”

Her eyes sting a little at his kindness, at his steadfast friendship, but she simply nods. He’s very sweet.

Except that then he keeps talking. “Oliver’s not a particularly easy man to deal with,” Dig says, “and when there are feelings on both sides--”

Felicity manages a high-pitched, “What?” at that, but he talks over her.

“--having to pretend that you’re more than friends when there _is_ something more than friendship between you that you’re both stubbornly denying must be pretty overwhelming.”

All she can do is stare at him for a long moment. And blink. Because he’s _clearly_ wrong. About Oliver, anyway. But, fine, he’s _not_ wrong about her, and even though she’s perhaps not handling this situation particularly well at the moment, she really, _really_ doesn’t want to talk about why.

“Felicity,” Dig begins, “you know that Oliver has--”

When her phone chirps, she practically lunges for it, because there is _no way_ she wants to talk to Dig about Oliver’s supposed _feelings_. No way. Particularly when Oliver is, _at this very moment_ , with the woman who he has inarguably had feelings for for years and years and years. Nope. 

So Felicity focuses on her phone. And sees a text from Oliver. _On my way. We need to go to Lohring & Assoc. ASAP. I’ll explain when I get there_.

“Explain what?” she wonders. Odd message, but okay -- at least now she knows there’s coffee coming. _And_ that she needs to figure out a way to get clothes that _aren’t_ borrowed, ill-fitting sleepwear. Felicity tosses the phone down on the cushion beside her and says, “Any chance I could persuade you to run by my apartment and get me some clothes?”

Dig levels her with a look. “I’m not rooting around in your underwear drawers, Felicity.”

She huffs a laugh, ignoring the flush of heat on her cheeks. “I’ll give you a list. You can just grab the purple bra with the little,” she makes an indecipherable motion in the air with her hand, “ _thingies_ on it, and whatever panties you see.” 

With a sigh, Dig drops his head back onto the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling. “So you _are_ asking me to root around in--”

“It’s not _rooting around_ if I give permission,” Felicity protests. “And instructions.”

Dig shrugs his big shoulders. “You know I love you, Felicity, but I never needed to know about your purple bra with the thingies on it.”

She grins, matching his position, staring absently up at the ceiling from the overstuffed couch’s plush embrace. “Sorry,” she says. “But I can’t exactly go to my apartment myself, and _this_ isn’t the most professional look.” She waggles her feet in her bright fuzzy socks to emphasize her point.

Diggle rolls his eyes at her. “I’ll go after Oliver gets back,” he promises. “But you are gonna owe me.”

“One probably technological favor to Ravenclaw,” she agrees, biting back a laugh at his honestly puzzled look in response. But she spares him the explanation.

After a long, quiet moment, Dig says, “About Oliver--” 

“Dig,” she interrupts, more than a little exasperated by his need to keep _talking_ about the thing she _really_ doesn’t want to talk about, “we’re fine. _I’m_ fine. I promise.”

“Okay,” he says, and she can tell he doesn’t believe her, but he’s willing to let things lie. “If that changes, I’m--”

The notification buzz of her phone interrupts him, and she glances at the screen puzzled. It buzzes again, and then a third time, and her heartbeat picks up. Because this sound is for her alerts on Oliver’s name in the press, and as the phone continues to buzz with alerts, she realizes this can’t be anything good. 

Was he arrested? What if they haven’t been giving the FBI enough credit? What if they’ve already started digging into her friends? What if they’ve figured out Oliver is the Arrow?

Felicity’s not too proud to admit that she might be panicking a little as she bolts upright and unlocks her screen. Her hands shake as she accesses the latest notification, which says--

_**OLIVER QUEEN ENGAGED** _

Felicity stops breathing. Because what?

Wait. 

Seriously, _what_?

He’s only been gone like an hour -- did his coffee date with Laurel go _that_ well? 

“Felicity?” Dig asks. “What’s wrong?”

Absently, she shakes her head, unable to articulate the chaos tumbling around her brain right now. Because Oliver getting married is _insane_ in its total _out-of-nowhere-ness_ , but it isn’t bad, exactly -- or at least it’s not bad in any way she would have ever expected. Still, she’s not exactly thrilled about this development. In fact, _heartbroken_ might be a more accurate description of her primary reaction to the idea, but she is not going to think about that. She scrolls down the brief article until she sees--

_\--confirmed his engagement to Felicity Smoak, his secretary and the rumored target of an FBI investigation--_

The panicked, wheezing sound she makes has Dig scooting closer to stare down at the phone in her hand. “The hell?” he mutters.

They sit there, side by side, in stunned silence for a long moment. Felicity supposes that Dig is reading the rest of the brief newsflash, but she cannot seem to stop staring at her own name. 

“Wait.” Diggle leans closer, tapping the screen. “There’s video.”

Felicity cannot possibly respond. Words are far beyond her current capabilities. Her hands are shaking, but she just stares in wordless shock as the video buffers. 

There’s a jarring, overproduced musical theme, short and loud, and then footage of Oliver with the TMZ logo at the bottom. Her stomach jolts, because he’s on the street not far from Buzzzz, carrying a tray holding three coffee cups, surrounded by a half dozen or so paparazzos. It’s from today -- probably from ten minutes ago. He’s ignoring the questions being shouted at him, jaw tight with frustration as they shout really awful insinuations, mostly about her.

Like, “Is it true your secretary seduced you in order to gain access to the company secrets?”

And, “How long have you been banging your assistant?”

Oliver’s murderous gaze should be enough to shut them all up, and for a few moments, Felicity is convinced that this is all a big misunderstanding. Because the cover story _is_ that he’s, well, banging her, so maybe the headline is just a mistake, a _vast_ overstatement of something Oliver said. It wouldn’t be the first time the tabloids massively exaggerated the truth -- or made things up out of whole cloth.

“Hey,” Oliver snaps, his voice vibrating with fury. “Watch your mouth. My relationship with Felicity is clearly nothing you could ever understand.”

Felicity makes an incredibly undignified noise, echoing “ _relationship_?” in a strange, squeaky version of her voice about a half-second before the reporters yell the same word back at Oliver in much more demanding tones.

“Yes,” he grits out. “Relationship.”

And then one of them asks, “Did Felicity get tired of trying to earn a diamond ring on her knees and just decide to steal from you instead?”

Lightning fast, Oliver changes directions, moving towards the paparazzo. “Felicity Smoak,” he spits out, his voice low and mean and almost Arrow-y, “doesn’t have to _earn_ something I would willingly give her.” Felicity’s pretty sure she’s stopped breathing; she just stares at his angry, animated face on the screen. “And she has nothing to do with the attack on QC.”

But his last words are drowned out by loud questions about rings and proposals and engagements, and whether he knocked her up, or whether she’s _blackmailing_ him into marriage with the QC hack, and Felicity’s pretty sure she stopped breathing.

Rage is clear on Oliver’s face, and he snaps, “She would never have to _blackmail_ me into marrying her, I would gladly--” He stops short, and Felicity can _see_ the moment he realizes what he just said, what he’s _saying_. But he recovers quickly. “I’m marrying Felicity because it’s what we both want. End of story.”

Beside her, Dig mutters something in an awed voice, but the high-pitched ringing in Felicity’s ears mostly drowns him out. She’s been holding her breath during most of the video clip, and she can’t figure out how to _stop_ , even though lack of oxygen has _clearly_ affected her ability to understand what’s happening, because this? _Cannot_ be real.

When she sucks in a gasping breath and tips forward, Dig rescues her phone from her nerveless hands and tries to steady her. But Felicity pushes him away, because aren’t you supposed to put your head between your knees when you’re passing out?

Because she’s pretty sure she’s passing out.

Or maybe she already passed out and this is some kind of insane fainting dream? Are fainting dreams a thing? They probably are.

Because there’s _no way_ Mr. Broody Fake-Playboy Vigilante Guy just told the world he’s going to _marry_ her. It makes _no_ sense.

None.

Zip.

Zero.

So she’ll just, you know, hang here until she wakes up from _whatever_ the hell this is and--

“Felicity?” Oliver calls, and he sounds concerned. And confused. And also like he’s _here_ , in the room where she’s fainting or maybe just dreaming about fainting, and she does _not_ need further complications right now. Like her supposed _fiance_ showing up when she is in the midst of a rather _glorious_ freakout. She laughs a little hysterically into her hands as she hears Oliver ask, “Dig, what the hell happened?”

It takes quite a bit of effort on her part, but Felicity sits back up, one hand gripping Dig’s forearm. Oliver slips in front of her, sitting on the coffee table beside the tray of coffee cups he was holding in the video where he said he was going to _marry_ her and--

“Oh, my God,” Felicity chokes, pinching her thigh with one shaking hand. As far as she can tell, she’s actually awake and that actually happened. The Oliver sitting in front of her with concern evident in his expression is wearing the same unfairly well-fitted grey suit as the engagement-talking Oliver in the video. Plus, her phone is still chiming and buzzing, indicating more and more press outlets are picking up the story. The _insane_ story.

“Felicity, please, tell me what’s wrong?” Oliver’s handsome, concerned, _insane_ face is all up in her face, and she cannot handle this.

“ _Married_?” she squeaks, her voice unusually high. 

Oliver blinks.

“Yeah,” Diggle sighs. “We saw the video.”

Oliver’s expression is only the tiniest bit regretful as he looks at her and says, “Oh.”

& & &

Oliver sits on the coffee table in front of Felicity, mind whirling as he tries to come up with a better response than _Oh_ to the fact that she and Diggle saw his minor meltdown and accidental proclamation. The idea that _everyone_ has probably seen it by now -- his mother, _Thea_ \-- that’s not something he can focus on; not when he needs to focus on the pale, stricken woman sitting before him. But he can’t quite come up with a way to explain _any_ of this that makes sense. Because none of this is happening the way he’d expected, and Felicity’s reaction is... _disheartening_.

She’s pale and shaky and semi-hysterical at the thought of marrying him and he’s a little hurt by how... _strongly_ she’s reacting.

More than that, though, he wants to explain, to make this better, but he has only ever been good at words when they don’t _mean_ very much. He has always been able to charm people; he knows he can dazzle them, but he has never really been able to put anything _worthwhile_ into words. 

And Felicity -- she’s far more than just _worthwhile_. She deserves all the things he can’t give. He’ll never be able to explain what he feels for her, to describe the _need_ he has to protect her by any means necessary. But he can at least _try_ to give her his rationale, to make sure she understands what he’s trying to do, how he’s trying to keep her safe.

“Felicity,” he says, and he wants to reach for her, but he’s really not sure whether that will make things better or worse, so he presses his palms flat against his thighs and leans forward a bit. “Felicity, it’s just a tactic, okay?” 

Her head snaps up and she fixes him with an incisive gaze. “What?”

“The...” He falters a bit, because his pulse is still elevated from his confrontation with those asshole paparazzos, and then he’d walked in on Felicity practically hyperventilating over an unknown threat that turned out to be _marrying him_ , and he doesn’t have the first clue how to make _any_ of this any better. There’s a knot of panic and anger and _hurt_ in his chest, making it very difficult to get words out. “My idea,” he says carefully. When she just stares at him, he clears his throat and adds, “Marriage.”

“Oliver,” Diggle interjects, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Not now, Dig,” Oliver objects, barely glancing at his friend, because this thing with Felicity -- it’s important and everything feels so very precarious right now. He refocuses on Felicity, whose blue eyes are strangely bright in her pale face right now. “Laurel said,” he begins, and he has no idea how to interpret the way Felicity flinches, “that your husband wouldn’t have to testify against you. So I thought--”

“ _Oliver_ ,” Dig says, his tone sharp.

Oliver glares at his friend. “John, _not right now_.”

“Yes, right now,” Diggle answers stubbornly, and it’s then that Oliver notices the hand Dig has on Felicity’s back. Like he’s _soothing_ her in the face of what Oliver is saying, and he’s reminded _again_ that these two people who are so, so important to him are closer to each other than they’ll ever be to him. If he were a better man, he wouldn’t even be upset about that, because a lot of it is due to his own bad choices, his cowardly tendency to run.

Regret and petty jealousy is a vicious mix, and Oliver is suddenly, irrationally angry. “Fine,” he grits out. He takes a slow breath, letting his fingertips rest lightly on Felicity’s knee until she looks at him. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

She just stares at him, a slight furrow in her brow. “Okay,” she echoes.

He needs to get up, to take this conversation with Dig to another room, but he has the strangest urge to stay here and soak up the feel of her knee beneath his hand. He makes himself let go, ease back. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Oliver stalks to the nearest room with a door, which, he realizes once he gets inside, is the bedroom. Felicity’s bedroom -- temporarily at least. He ruthlessly ignores the rumpled bedcovers. In fact, he can’t let himself look directly at the bed; he knows from the embarrassing amount of time he’d spent this morning gazing at the bed in Tommy’s old room that there’s something about the idea of Felicity and beds that will not let him think rationally.

God, he misses his denial and ignorance; he may have wanted Felicity for months and months, but until the last couple days, he’d at least hadn’t _realized_ it enough to regret everything they can’t have.

When he hears the click of the door closing behind Dig, he turns on his heel and glowers at his friend. “Just _what_ was so important that--”

“That I needed to interrupt your half-ass proposal?” Dig interrupts angrily. “Which is probably the _worst_ idea you’ve had in your life, by the way -- and I’m including sleeping with Isabel in that ranking.”

Oliver blinks, unsure where to even start. “ _Proposal_?” He crosses his arms. “Diggle, I’m not _actually_ asking--”

“Believe me, I know that. Why the hell do you think I dragged your ass out of there?” Diggle demands. Loudly. He takes a calming breath, then continues quietly. “You need to take about ten steps back and think about what you’re asking her. Think about what happens if you actually _marry_ Felicity.”

Oliver feels oddly defensive; trapped; cornered. Because what Diggle is suggesting is wrong -- it’s not _that_ kind of marriage, not a real for-better-or-for-worse kind of thing. He doesn’t even _want_ that, does he? He’s _never_ been a man who wanted that. “Diggle, it’s not like that. Felicity and I--”

“If you so much as _think_ the word platonic right now,” Diggle grits out, “I will actually punch you.” 

“Dig,” Oliver warns. Because he values John’s opinion over almost everyone else’s in the world, but this day has been one hit after another, and he can’t keep fighting with everyone. 

“Look,” Dig says, in a patronizing tone that Oliver finds exceptionally grating, “the hooking up cover story? The one you were going to _only_ tell the cops? That made some sense, and as much as I found it personally amusing, I never doubted that it was dangerous.”

Shaking his head, Oliver steps closer. “Dangerous how? Diggle, you’re not making sense.”

“Dangerous because nothing about you and Felicity has ever been simple or _platonic_ ," Diggle declares, and as much as he wants to argue, Oliver knows there’s some truth to that. 

Because he’d trusted Felicity almost on sight, and beyond that, there’s always been _something_ between them; some hint of _possibilities_. But none of that matters, because he will never deserve her. “John...”

“You love her,” Diggle continues, blithely ignoring the way Oliver’s head jerks up, ignoring the wide-eyed panic Oliver _knows_ is on his face right now, because no one’s supposed to be able to figure that part out. 

Hell, Oliver _himself_ just started to suspect that might be true in the last _day_. No one’s supposed to know how deeply he wants and needs her. “I don’t...” Oliver trails off, unable to complete his thoughts in the face of Diggle’s exasperated look. “I know it’s complicated,” he says instead, “but this way I can protect her.”

“Man, when are you gonna realize she doesn’t want you to be her _protector_? And what woman have you ever met who would want a proposal of marriage that starts off, _This is a tactic_?”

“It’s not a real proposal,” Oliver protests quietly. And for the first time, he _hears_ what he’s saying. And he understands Diggle’s anger, and his insistence that Oliver stop talking. Because Felicity deserves a real proposal. She deserves a man who is as good as she is, who can make her happy, who can marry her and keep her safe for the rest of her life. And the deep ache in his chest at the very thought? Well, Oliver will just have to learn to deal with it. He sighs. “John, I know this is a bad situation, and I know I’m doing things _wrong_ and out of order and,” he shakes his head, “I know she deserves _way_ better than what I could ever give her. I _know_ that. But right now this is the best way to keep her protected.”

“Love isn’t not about _deserving_ it, Oliver,” Diggle shoots back, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And Felicity--”

The sound of the doorknob turning freezes them both in place.

Felicity pushes the door open, but remains in the doorway, her face bright pink, but her chin up as she meets their gazes. “These are not the thickest walls,” she remarks, and Oliver feels an answering flush in his cheeks. 

He’s paralyzed, unable to move or respond or really even _breathe_ as he waits for her to speak. Because Felicity has always, _always_ been braver than he is when it comes to finding out the truth. Depending on how much she heard, she might walk right into his personal space with that determined look on her face and ask him if he loves her.

And he’s never been able to lie to her.

He hasn’t felt this bone-deep kind of panic since the first few days on Lian Yu.

“Felicity,” Dig begins, but she throws a hand up in warning.

“Don’t,” she warns. “If we’re going to discuss this,” she pauses minutely, “tactic, then I should be included.”

Oliver sags a little with relief. He has at least been granted a reprieve, and that’s enough for him to be able to refocus. “I’m sorry.” He looks down at the carpet for a moment, takes a steadying breath. “I know this isn’t want you want, but I think we should consider this,” he stumbles a little, not wanting to say the word _tactic_ again, “option.”

Beside him, Digg huffs. Felicity gives their friend a warning glare, then turns back to Oliver. “Okay,” she says, and Oliver nods, marshaling his arguments, expecting that he’ll still have to persuade her -- but then she keeps talking. “I Googled a little, and you’re right, Oliver, and not just because it might protect me, but because it could also protect you. So if we’re talking strictly in terms of strategy and legal protections, then,” she takes a moment, then there’s that familiar fearless look on her beautiful face as she tips up her chin, “Yes, we should get married.”

He knows it’s not real. He _knows_ this is a tactic -- it’s _his_ tactic, after all. He knows this, but none of that matters when he hears her say those words. To him.

 _We should get married_.

Oliver’s breath is trapped in his chest, and he feels like the slightest touch could topple him over, and he vividly understands, now, why Felicity had been basically hyperventilating when he arrived back at the suite. 

“Oliver?” Dig prompts, slapping him on the back probably a little harder than necessary.

Oliver realizes belatedly that he’s been mutely staring at Felicity, and he jerks a nod. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice cracked and broken. “We should-- We should get married.”

And as he and Felicity stare at each other across the vast distance of a dozen feet, unsure what they’re supposed to do now that they’ve made this decision, Oliver can’t quite ignore the gnawing idea that they’re making a mistake.

& & &

A jittery kind of panic hits Felicity as she watches the door close behind Diggle. Because it’s only _now_ occurring to her that sending Diggle to get clothes from her apartment means leaving her alone in this hotel suite with Oliver. Her... _fiance_.

Well, _tactical_ fiance, actually.

She did a bit of reading on the marital privilege while Diggle and Oliver argued about her in the other room. So the rational side of her brain understands Oliver’s reasoning; she even _agrees_ that it’d be great for neither of them to be able to be forced to testify against the other, considering what they do together.

Crime-fighting-wise. They don’t do _other_ things together.

Obviously.

Whatever. The point is, there’s a logical reason for she and Oliver to marry each other. 

It’s just that her face flushes hot every time the thought flits through her brain, and she still can’t quite believe this is really happening. And the thing is -- it _is_ really happening. This isn’t just _telling_ people they’re in a relationship when they’re not as some kind of cover story -- easily created, easily dismantled. Because in order to take advantage of this marital privilege thing, they will have to _actually get married_.

She really, really hopes the strangled noises she makes every time she thinks about it are too quiet for Oliver to hear.

“Felicity, are you okay?” Oliver asks from somewhere behind her, his tone hesitant and concerned. Because of _course_ he heard her; he’s got ears like a bat when he wants to. 

“Fine,” she says to the door, because she’s still working on making herself turn around and face Oliver.

He takes a breath. “We should talk about the… the plan.”

God, this is horribly awkward. And talking about it right now, without the calming influence of John Diggle is a _super_ bad idea. Like, calamitously bad. Because Oliver is being all... _inscrutably_ weird, and she’s barely suppressing the anxiety she feels every time she thinks about _marrying Oliver_ , and that combination is... Not. Good.

“You know what?” she exclaims, far too brightly, one palm still resting flat against the hotel room door. “We can do that later.”

“Felicity.”

She whirls to face him, finding a carefully blank look on his face and tension throughout his frame. He’s standing by the couch, and when she eases out of the entryway and into the room, she stops very far away from him. “I need to work on solving the _real_ problem so that we can avoid _this_ problem.” She waves a hand a little wildly, indicating the distance between them.

Oliver’s expression hardens further. “The real problem?” he echoes.

She’s already moving towards the desk, towards his borrowed laptop, as she nods. “Solving the mystery,” she says, taking care to move around the opposite side of the couch, maintaining a good six feet of distance between them at all times. Still, she stops to grab the coffee he’d brought back for her from the carrying tray. “Thanks,” she adds softly.

His eyebrows tilt downwards in confusion. “Felicity, what are--?”

“The bionumetric algorithm,” she answers crisply. She drops into the chair, waking the laptop with quick keyboard strokes. “I need to work on tracing it. I need to figure out who has it, and how they got it.”

This is her best chance of saving them from their plan; her best chance of saving her heart from the inevitable crushing it will receive if she has to stand up somewhere and promise to have and to hold the man she wants but can’t have. She can’t possibly look him in the eyes and and recite _vows_. How can she _possibly_ tell him she’ll love, honor, and cherish him without accidentally _meaning_ it? 

Felicity is a very smart woman with many talents. Unfortunately, none of them include lying. If she says _any_ love and marriage-related things to Oliver, he’s going to _know_. He’s going to see that she’s _not_ lying; he’ll recognize what it means to her, what she really feels about him. 

Worse, he’s never been able to lie convincingly to her, which means she’s going to have stand there and watch him _pretend_ to take her as his wife. He’ll have to look right at her and _pretend_ that he loves her.

The idea of trying to live through that kind of finely drawn torture makes her chest ache. 

A warm palm lands on her shoulder, jarring her out of her spiral. “I need to know more about your-- about the virus,” Oliver says. 

Felicity leans away, out of his reach, because everything is so raw and so clear in her brain right now that she’s pretty sure he’ll be able to see it. She draws her feet up, sitting cross-legged in the chair, refusing to look at Oliver even as he moves to stand beside her.

“Felicity?”

“Not now, Oliver,” she snaps. And she _knows_ none of this is his fault. She _knows_ that she’s actually mad at herself and her stupid feelings, not Oliver. But she just can’t talk about any of it right now. She needs a break, a breather, and she’s so thrown by this impossibility with Oliver that she actually finds thinking about Cooper _less_ upsetting at the moment.

And that just makes her feel guilti _er_.

“Felicity, you’re right -- we should be focusing on the attack on QC.” His voice is louder now, more insistent. Maybe a little annoyed. 

She chances a glance at him, taking in the tension in his frame, the familiar tick of his finger and thumb rubbing in tiny circles. She hates that she’s the reason for this -- she hates that _someone_ has used her old virus to attack Oliver’s company. “I’m going to figure this out,” she promises him, and when their eyes lock, she holds her breath. She still doesn’t fully recognize his expression; she knows him well, but they are definitely in new territory today.

“We will,” he corrects, with a small, fleeting smile. When it fades, he’s back to watching her with that emotionless mask in place. “Tell me about your boyfriend.”

Felicity goes rigid, torn between her guilt-fueled desire to protect Cooper’s memory, and the ever-present compulsion to make things easier for Oliver. “It’s not him,” she manages, turning back to the laptop and digging back in. Oliver’s large hand settles over her fingers on the keyboard and she snatches her hands back with a startled, “Hey. Do I grab arrows out of your quiver?”

His jaw clenches in irritation. “Would you just talk to me for five minutes?”

“Oliver, I _don’t know_ who’s doing this,” she argues. Kind of loudly. “If I knew, I would tell you,” she adds, and she’s warming to this theme. “Actually, if I knew, I would tell Lance and the FBI so that we weren’t trapped in a hotel room together planning _our fake wedding_.”

“We’re not planning anything,” he grits out. And then he looks away from her, arms crossed in a way that draws just entirely too much of her attention to his stupid biceps and the breadth of his chest. Angry Oliver is magnetic, despite being incredibly frustrating.

Particularly when she can’t figure out _why_ he’s angry. She glares up at him. “I’m not sure what your problem is right now, but I’m trying my best to make sure you don’t have to _marry_ me to try to keep me out of jail.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” he snaps in that growly way of his.

She huffs in frustration and turns back to the laptop screen. Fine. Let him be a grumpy, grouchy jerk about this. She’ll just solve the mystery of the QC attack and prove herself innocent. 

“Felicity!” he all but yells.

She whips her head around, glaring at him. “What?”

Oliver looks up at the ceiling, taking in a breath, then letting it out slowly. When he meets her gaze again, she can see that he’s still angry, but he’s doing his best to keep it under wraps. “If you give me a lead,” he says flatly, “I can actually _do something_ instead of sitting here with you, waiting for the police to kick the door in.”

Stung, she turns back to the laptop, determined to ignore him and focus. “I don’t _have_ any leads, and I won’t find any if you keep _interrupting_ me.”

“The only two people you’ve mentioned who know about this virus are you and your old boyfriend,” Oliver says, and she can’t help but glance up at him. There’s something strange in his tone -- hurt, maybe? It makes no sense. He meets her gaze and continues, “I know that you had nothing to do with this attack. I don’t know anything about your old boyfriend. He _is_ a lead, and I need his name.”

“It’s not him,” she says again, more defensively this time. She’s protective of his memory, because it’s her fault that he’s dead. She can’t do anything to bring Cooper back, but she can keep Oliver from kicking dirt on his grave.

“Why?” Oliver demands, and she _definitely_ recognizes the anger in his tone, even if she doesn’t understand it. “Because he’s your old boyfriend?”

There’s a note of jealousy, or maybe possessiveness in Oliver’s question, and it’s the absolute last straw. He has _no right_. Felicity has been holding onto her temper by a thread, and she can practically _hear_ it snap in the wake of his words.

“No,” she yells, standing so quickly the chair skitters back and away from her, “because he’s _dead_.” 

Oliver is stunned into stillness, watching her with wide eyes. She can feel the tears coming and the last thing she needs is to break down in front of him. 

The words tumble out quickly, her voice shaky, “He got arrested for the hack on the Department of Education, but they didn’t ever figure out the virus was mine because he confessed. He pled guilty, and then he hung himself before sentencing. He killed himself in prison, and it’s my fault, and I can’t fix it. I can never even tell him how sorry I am.” She stops, takes an unsteady breath. “I need some air.”

As Felicity marches away, Oliver says her name in that soft, apologetic way of his, but she is too angry, too overwhelmed with _everything_ to be reasonable right now. So she storms out onto the small terrace and leans her elbows on the railing as she cries into her hands.

& & &

An hour later, Oliver ushers Felicity into Lohring & Associates, doing his best to ignore the simmering unease between them. He’s _definitely_ ignoring the threatening looks Diggle keeps sending him.

Felicity is barely speaking to him; she’d come in from the balcony when Diggle arrived with her clothes, with red eyes and a blotchy face. She’d barely looked at Oliver, murmuring something about a shower before disappearing into the bedroom. 

“What’d you do, man?” Diggle had demanded. Oliver’s explanation hadn’t done much to calm Diggle before Felicity had reappeared, looking like professional perfection in a fitted grey dress and those Mary Jane heels that appeared sometimes in Oliver’s dreams. He’d apologized quietly to Felicity and she’d shrugged an apparent acceptance; still, the ride over to the lawyer’s office had passed in a brittle silence.

When they reach the lavishly appointed waiting area, Felicity steps away from him, moving to stand near the window. Oliver can see part of the Queen Consolidated building a few blocks away, but he’s mostly watching her. She’s still tense, guarded, her arms crossed tightly and her shoulder hitched up defensively. He’s pretty sure she’s shielding herself _from him_ , and the realization is like acid in his gut.

He takes a step towards her, but Diggle moves into his line of sight, shaking his head. Before Oliver can argue -- or just ignore Dig -- he hears high heels on marble flooring and turns to find Jean Lohring, perfectly coiffed and dressed in a tailored navy blue suit.

“Oliver,” greets Jean as she beckons for them to follow her back into the well-appointed offices. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but people in need of criminal defense attorneys are typically having a pretty bad week.”

Oliver nods, “I appreciate your willingness to see us on such short notice.”

Jean opens a door to a large conference room with plush leather executive chairs around a mahogany table. There’s a wall of windows facing the Bay, a stunning view that Oliver is not at all in the mood to appreciate.

He lets Felicity sit first, then takes the chair to her right; Diggle sits to her left after introducing himself quickly to Jean as the Queen family bodyguard. Oliver doesn’t miss the censorious look Felicity gives Diggle when he indicates that she’s one of his charges, implying that she’s part of the Queen family. 

Oliver pushes down the warm, fuzzy feeling gets in response to the implication; he can’t afford warm, fuzzy feelings.

Jean and another lawyer she introduces as Bhavin sit across from them at the large table; Jean has a notepad and a pen in front of her, while Bhavin opens a small laptop. Jean leans back. “Oliver, Felicity, John, let me first explain that I am Oliver’s lawyer, so whatever _he_ says to me is privileged; however, I am not representing you, Felicity, or you, John.”

Jean is about to say more, but Oliver interrupts, “Actually, we’d like you to represent Felicity as well. John doesn’t currently need legal representation.” 

Jean lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Oliver, if you are both facing potential legal prosecution for the QC attack,” she says evenly, “you each need your own lawyer to avoid any potential conflicts.”

“That makes sense.” Felicity carefully folds her hands on the table before her. “I’m sure they’ll assign me a public defender, so--”

“No,” Oliver interrupts, ignoring the knot of anger in his chest, because he knows Felicity will not respond well to him in _angry face_ mode, as she so memorably calls it. Not in the midst of this situation that keeps spinning more and more out of his control; and certainly not after their argument earlier. So he tamps down all of his fear and anger and focuses on solving this particular problem -- because _this_ is something that can be settled easily.

He should’ve expected Felicity to fight him on it anyway.

She gives him an exasperated look. “I can’t afford an attorney at this firm,” she says, flashing an apologetic look to Jean and Bhavin. “No offense. This is all,” she shrugs, gesturing at the room and then the view beyond the windows, “beautiful.”

“None taken,” Jean answers smoothly, but there’s a sharp, evaluating expression on her face as she looks back and forth between Oliver and Felicity.

Oliver ignores their exchange, focusing instead on the solvable problem. “Felicity, I am paying for your attorney,” he announces. Then he glances at Jean. “Can you represent her instead? I’m happy to have Bhavin represent me if needed.”

“Oh.” Bhavin’s eyes go wide and he sputters a little. “I’m an associate. Surely you’d prefer--”

“Oliver,” Felicity whispers harshly. “You can’t just pay for my attorney.”

Incredulous, he lifts his eyebrows and stares at her. “We’re getting married, Felicity. Of course I’m paying for your attorney.” Her face flushes in response, but she doesn’t answer immediately; if he had to guess, he’d say she was momentarily speechless. In other circumstances, he might find that amusing.

“If I may?” Jean interrupts. When they turn their attention back to her, she smiles. “The firm can certainly represent Felicity as well as Oliver, though we’ll need to be careful to avoid conflicts. Also, please keep in mind that we will construct a zealous defense for each of you, based upon the facts as you explain them to us, and as we are able to prove.”

Inquisitive as ever, Felicity leans in a bit and asks, “Are you suggesting we should be careful not to tell you that we did anything wrong? Or to _lie_ about not being behind the attack? I mean, under the assumption that we were -- or that I was. But we _weren’t_ ,” Felicity barely pauses for breath. “I don’t know who did this, but it wasn’t either of us.”

Jean lifts a hand to stay more rambling from Felicity. “No, Felicity. I absolutely do _not_ want you to lie to me, or withhold important information. We need to build a strong defense, and I can’t do that with half-truths. What I’m saying is that it’s possible that the best defense for you may not be the best defense for Oliver. And vice versa. That’s why we need to be careful.”

Oliver nods. “Felicity is the priority.” It’s so obvious to him as to not need saying; he says it anyway, just to be very clear. If there’s a choice between Felicity’s freedom and happiness and his own? He would never, ever selfishly protect himself.

“Oliver!” Felicity swats at his arm with her hand. “Stop being a self-sacrificing idiot. If this is _anyone’s_ , you know it’s mine.”

“Okay,” Jean interjects, her tone authoritative. “Before we go any further, we need to formalize the attorney-client relationship with Felicity. It’s just a little bit of paperwork, but it’ll protect everyone. John,” she continues, addressing Diggle directly, “if you aren’t in need of representation, once we start interviewing Felicity and Oliver, we’ll need you to step outside.”

“Sure thing,” Diggle answers. He squeezes Felicity’s shoulder and moves to stand. “I’ll be in the lobby.” Felicity reaches up and clings to Dig’s arm for a long moment. He pauses, looking down at her with a warm smile. “It’s gonna be fine, Felicity.”

“Yeah,” she says, but it sounds like she’s still trying to convince herself. “Yeah, okay.” She releases Diggle with a smile and a soft, “Thanks, John.” Then she turns to Jean, her expression shifting from uncertainty to determination, and she says, “Also, we need a prenup.”

“What?” Oliver asks, blinking hard at the conversational whiplash.

Felicity ignores him, her gaze fixed firmly on Jean. “I know this is a criminal defense firm, but can you help us with that, too?”

“Felicity, that’s not important right now,” Oliver points out, ignoring how much he _hates_ the very idea of a prenuptial agreement to protect a fortune built up by his grandparents; _he_ hasn’t worked hard for it. In fact, all he’d done for the first 20 years of his life was blow through money he could never have earned on his own. He feels no desire at all to protect what the law considers his from this woman who has never been anything other than worthy of everything good in the world.

She’s far more worthy than he is.

But Felicity gives him a hard look. “It’s actually _very_ important,” she argues. “I don’t want any of your money, Oliver. I want that clear up front, so when--” She stops short, eyes wide. “I mean, in the totally unlikely event that our marriage doesn’t work out,” she corrects, and it doesn’t escape Oliver’s notice that her voice shakes when she says _our marriage_ , “I don’t want anything that’s _yours_.”

Jean, who is an incredibly sharp woman, and an excellent attorney, clears her throat. “Felicity, Oliver, I think a prenuptial agreement is a great idea. I was surprised to hear of your engagement, but I’m very happy for you both.” Oliver _knows_ that Jean suspects their marriage is a tactic even before she adds, “I should explain that it’s possible the marital testimonial privilege could come into play in any future criminal proceedings.”

Oliver chances a glance at Felicity who is blushing as she watches Jean. He sighs, unable to come up with a reasonable explanation other than the truth. “Jean--”

“Please, Oliver,” Jean interrupts, “let me finish. I am not making any judgments or assumptions here -- in fact, I have no reason to believe your intention to get married is rooted in anything other than a deep, genuine love for each other.” Oliver can feel the flush in his cheeks, but fights not to react, not to look at Felicity even after he hears her suck in an unsteady breath. Jean continues calmly, “But there are some,” she pauses, head tilting as she weighs her words, “nuances to the marital privilege in Washington state that you should be aware of.”

“Nuances?” Felicity prompts, and Oliver can _feel_ her gaze when she glances at him. 

“Yes,” Jean answers. “For instance, if you are married during any criminal proceedings, the prosecution would not be able to force you to testify about any conversations or communications between the two of you. However, the privilege will not attach if your marriage occurs _after_ the state has filed charges against you.”

Beside him, Felicity makes a high-pitched squeaking noise that, in other instances, he would probably find adorable. However, he’s far too focused on what Jean is so very carefully saying right now. “Jean,” he asks, his voice rough, “are you saying that Felicity and I need to be married before she’s arrested?”

Jean glances at Felicity and then back to Oliver. “If you think the testimonial privilege is something that could assist in her defense and want to make sure it would be available to you,” Jean answers, “then that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Oliver glances at Felicity, who is staring at him, eyes wide behind her glasses. “You mean,” she chokes out, “we have to get married _now_.”

Oliver ignores the little jolt of _want_ he feels at her words. Nothing has changed; this is a _tactic_ \-- a tactic that’s been implicitly approved by their attorney, no less. So he just needs to keep his feelings out of it. He just needs to protect her as best he can, and then let her go.

“Okay,” he says. And he is absolutely ignoring the swell of _something_ in his chest when he asks, his gaze fixed on Felicity, “Can we get married today?”

& & &

END CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

Felicity supposes most women would be preparing for their impromptu weddings by digging through their closets for the perfect dress and the perfect shoes and the perfect accessories. Definitely they would squeeze in a mani/pedi, maybe an extensive waxing session, and for sure get their their hair twisted into gorgeous, complicated updos.

Felicity isn’t most women, apparently, because the bright purple nail polish on her thumbnail is chipped, her hair’s in a perfectly businesslike ponytail, and instead of doing anything at all about her appearance, she’s stress-eating _really_ expensive cookies that she ordered from room service (and blithely ignoring Diggle’s judgemental eyebrow) while overseeing a vigilante mission on comms.

A normal day in the life. If you ignore the _marrying Oliver in a few hours_ part.

The idea of the wedding makes her hyperventilate, and the thought of the resulting press coverage makes her want to vomit. So she’s just… putting all of that out of mind. And taking extreme measures to do so -- she _never_ turns her phone off, but it’s powered down, abandoned on the desktop beside Oliver’s borrowed laptop. Having it off makes Felicity twitch, but the constant notification chimes had been both draining her battery at an alarming rate, and also driving her insane. The last thing she looked at online was a BuzzFeed list of Oliver Queen’s girlfriends over the years.

And, wow, she’d forgotten just how _unflattering_ her ID photo for Queen Consolidated is, and now it’s _everywhere_ , a pictorial representation of just how miscast Felicity is to be Oliver Queen’s wife.

BuzzFeed captioned her photo with a brutally concise, “Really!?”

The realization that this is just the beginning leaves her nauseated. Because there’s no way the press will stop until they figure out the mystery of why Oliver Queen -- who can and has dated supermodels, actresses, and pop stars -- is marrying a cute blonde from his office. The simple (but wrong) answer they’ll decide on is the same thing Isabel and that ilk at QC have been implying for months, and it sets Felicity’s teeth on edge.

Her hurt feelings _demand_ that she methodically crash every gossip site on the internet. Instead, she’s ruthlessly focused on the only thing she can control right now: the mission.

As soon as they’d arrived back at the hotel, varying degrees of shell-shocked by the information Jean Lohring provided, Felicity had decided the only way to manage all the impossible things is to break them into reasonable tasks. And because she still can’t really talk about her _upcoming nuptials_ without turning red and sputtering incoherently, she’d put Diggle on organizational duty with only one rule: _Not Vegas_.

Then, because she’s somehow avoided being spotted by the press since news of her engagement broke, which has sent the press into a tizzy of insane _who will get the first picture of Oliver Queen’s betrothed!?_ , she’d sent Oliver to covertly infiltrate her apartment. The siege on her apartment building is not just made up of local reporters and paparazzi, now -- Felicity spotted a CNN logo on one of the satellite trucks, which makes her want to rage about the fall of _real_ journalism and the frustrating focus on “sexy” stories like _who is Oliver Queen banging now!?_

Ugh. Stupid press. 

Stupid cover story keeping her far, far away from her apartment when she’d really, _really_ like to curl up under her well-worn blue blanket and shut out the world for a while. 

Stupid time-sensitive mission to recover a very particular laptop hidden away in her closet at home while avoiding the press and not revealing any Arrow-like skills. Because Oliver’s not under the hood for this -- oh, no, he’s wearing his regular, Oliver Queen leather jacket (the brown one that makes her feel all hot and melt-y when she looks directly at him) instead. 

She’s got Oliver’s borrowed laptop pulling double duty -- she’s researching the basic requirements of prenuptial agreements, and she’s RDP’ed into the lair’s computers, allowing her to monitor security cameras around town, including the super low quality one at her apartment building. It’s a simple mission. Leading Oliver into a building while safely avoiding the bad guys -- who, today, have cameras and microphones, instead of guns, so at least any misstep on his part will be non-fatal.

You know, probably.

Felicity leans closer to the screen, squinting at the low resolution video feed. “Are you sure you can get past the press?” she asks Oliver. Again. Because it’s _daylight_ , so it’s not like Oliver can shoot a grappling arrow and then scamper up the side of her building.

“Oliver?” she asks again, a little louder this time. Diggle glances over from his perch on the couch, where he’s been alternately on hold and talking options with a Reno wedding chapel. Because he’s _planning her wedding_.

God.

She presses a hand to her chest and forces herself to take a deep, slow breath.

Finally, Oliver answers over the comms, “I’m in. Bedroom closet?”

“Oh.” She blinks, surprised. How does he _do_ that? She didn’t spot him on any of the area surveillance cameras, and she didn’t hear him so much as breathing hard. “Okay then,” she says, trying to refocus on the mission. “Yes, bedroom closet.” She wrinkles her nose. Great, Oliver’s in her bedroom and she’s not even there. “Not exactly how I pictured this,” she mutters.

There’s a huff from Oliver that might’ve been a laugh. “Why did you picture me in your closet?”

“Not the closet,” she corrects, then snaps her jaw shut. “There’s a box in the back left corner,” she continues hurriedly, because she is _not_ going to clarify what she meant. _Ever_. “The laptop I need is in there.”

In all honesty, _laptop_ doesn’t really do the machine justice. She’d taken the outdated body of a big, clunky laptop and, well, retrofitted it into an ultra-high-powered, crazy fast, air-gapped machine capable of running a huge, complex program -- and _incapable_ of being hacked. She built it after Cooper’s death to preserve what she’d believed in the years since to be the only surviving copy of her supervirus. It was a strange impulse at the time, and she’d had no idea when or how she would ever need to use the virus again. But some perverse sense of pride had made her reluctant to destroy it, even if it could be used as evidence against her if it were ever found.

They might have her slightly compulsive nature to thank if she really does figure this out. If she’s going to untangle her own creation, she needs to dig in. All the way in. Go line by line through the code until it comes back to life in her brain and she can _logic_ her way out of this mess.

Her fingers _itch_ for the keyboard, because she really, really, _really_ wants to get started.

“Box marked ‘Boston’?” Oliver asks, and a dozen college memories hit her at once -- the sound snow makes crunching under your boots, the brilliant colors of autumn in the northeast, the seriously terrible smell of the open air market, the coffeeshop near the library where she’d learned to appreciate the gift of caffeine.

“You got it,” Felicity answers on a rush of nostalgia. Then she freezes, face scrunched up in apprehension. Because that box contains more than just the laptop. “Ignore any pictures you might--”

“Wow,” Oliver breathes, and Felicity groans her embarrassment, because she _knows_ he found a few snapshots of Goth!Felicity, with the hair and the lipstick and the jewelry. “You look very different,” he says, sounding a little strangled.

“We shall never speak of this,” she orders. “Just pack up the laptop and-- and--” Her brain locks up before she can get the words out. She needs something to wear for their wedding, but she can’t even let herself think the words _wedding dress_ , never mind say them to Oliver.

“Felicity?” he asks, sounding concerned. Because of course he is. He seems at least a _little_ rattled by the small thing where they’re _getting married_ in a few hours, but Felicity is orders of magnitude more freaked out than he is. And he’s always been so solicitous of her.

Well, no, sometimes he’s a big jerk. But when he tries, when he’s worried about her, he can be almost unbearably sweet. Like now. And when he’s kind like this, it makes that stupid, impossible, apparently permanent crush she has on him feel like way more than just a crush. It makes her think dangerous thoughts; it makes her want to be doing this for real, instead of for a slight legal advantage.

Which is _crazy_ , and she needs to just quit it. She actually smacks the heel of her hand into her forehead, trying to jar herself loose from this particular spiral.

“Can you--?” She stops, tries again. “I need something to wear,” she blurts. “For-- For later, I mean.”

There’s the longest, most awkward few seconds of silence that Felicity has ever heard, and she can _feel_ the capillaries on her face filling with blood, flooding her face with bright red embarrassment.

Felicity throws a pointed glare at Diggle when he mutters, “Yeah, this is going about as well as I expected.”

“A dress,” Oliver says slowly, and she can’t quite read the note of... _something_ in his voice. “A dress for the-- For later?”

“Yes,” she tells Oliver. “There are some options on the right. Some-- Some dresses. Just pick--”

“You organize your closet by color,” Oliver observes, his voice still sounding a little strange. Like he’s speaking very carefully.. “There’s quite a bit of purple. And pink.” 

“Yeah,” Felicity agrees, glasses abandoned beside his laptop, elbows on the desk, face in her hands. She wants to say that she doesn’t wear much white because it’s too bridal, but she can’t make the words happen. She wants to say she loves the way bright colors make her feel, and that she would prefer the armor of something she loves if she’s going to get through this, but she _can’t_. Instead, she says, “Any of those options are fine, Oliver. Just, you know, grab something that doesn’t look wrinkled or--”

“I like you in red,” Oliver comments, his voice strangely low, and accompanied by the sound of hangers sliding along the bar as he _looks through her dress options_. Felicity presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees spots. When Oliver continues, he almost sounds flustered. “I mean, red is flattering. To you.”

Felicity opens her mouth, but nothing emerges other than a choked gasping sound. Because it definitely seem like Oliver prefers her in red, which implies that he’s thought about it the way she looks in different colors enough to draw conclusions about what is flattering to her. 

It makes it sound like he’s thought about _her_. 

She adds a cough to cover her ridiculousness, then manages, “That’s the-- You mean the one with spaghetti straps?” 

It was an impulse buy during Project Wardrobe Upgrade, a shopping spree she’d embarked upon after being conscripted into working as Oliver’s EA. Because being the CEO’s gatekeeper means rubbing elbows (metaphorically, at least) with some fancypants business types. Felicity may not have the easiest relationship with her mother, but she learned the power of presentation from watching Donna Smoak. So once Felicity stopped fuming about her _promotion_ , she’d decided to arm herself against gossip and dismissive comments by making sure she looked flawless. Every day. And if that required a week-long shopping extravaganza, so be it.

During one of her _good_ shopping days -- one of the _expensive_ days where everything fit and flattered -- she’d wandered a bit too far from the work-appropriate dresses and found herself drawn in by the cocktail dresses, all bright and sparkly and irresistible. 

The red dress had been the first one she tried on, and the only one she bought. When she’d looked in the mirror, the dress had clung to her curves, with light draping along the neckline to offer a hint of cleavage; sexy, but not too tight or daring to be worn out in the daylight. Buying it had been a foregone conclusion, even if she had nowhere to actually _wear_ it yet.

The right event hasn’t presented itself yet, but if she’s being truthful, she wants Oliver to see her in it. She knows she’ll feel good wearing it -- she’ll feel _confident_ , and she’s really, definitely, _totally_ going to need that kind of fortitude to get through the rest of her day. A red wedding dress isn’t exactly traditional, but Felicity is surprisingly okay with the idea of wearing _that_ dress.

It doesn’t hurt that Oliver chose that dress from the abundance of options in her closet.

“Yes,” Oliver confirms. “Is this-- Would you like to wear that one for -- later?”

The fact that neither of them can even say the word _wedding_ aloud is probably a bad sign. Also, she _definitely_ didn’t have Diggle grab her a strapless bra earlier, and there’s _no way_ she’s going to ask Oliver to bring her lingerie. She will figure that part out... _somehow_.

Felicity’s voice is a little weird when she answers. “Yes. Thanks, Oliver.”

“I’ll see you at the airfield,” Oliver says. Before she can answer, he disconnects his comm with a quiet beep.

Her hands are shaking a little, but she’s got a lot to get done in the next half hour, so she tosses the comm onto the desk, disconnects from the lair’s system, and digs into her research on prenuptial agreements.

Because almost everything else in her life is overwhelming and out of control, but this? This is a problem that she can solve.

& & &

Oliver reaches the mansion quickly, trying to ignore the weight of everything that’s happened today -- and everything that _will_ happen. He’ll end the day a married man. He’ll end the day married _to Felicity_ , the woman he’s only just realized that he desperately wants. The woman that he can’t have. 

Oliver’s never been a fan of irony.

Parking quickly, he unfolds himself from the car, then carefully lifts the red dress he’d chosen for Felicity, holding it aloft as he heads for the door. It’s much shorter than that long, tight red dress she’d worn into the underground casino, but he’s still very mindful of keeping it from dragging on the ground. Because they’d talked in terms of “ _later_ ,” but the tightness in his chest, the nervous energy in his body, and the way his hands shook when he’d pulled the hanger free -- it’s all due to the fact that this is her _wedding dress_. 

Untraditional and red, yes, but somehow so very fitting for their strange relationship -- not to mention the circumstances surrounding their impending wedding.

He pauses in the entryway, listening for his mother or Raisa or Thea, but no one appears. Sighing with relief, he heads up the left staircase, stopping most of the way up to make sure the slippery red fabric doesn’t slide right off the hanger and crumple onto the floor. He’s so pre-occupied with the dress that he doesn’t hear his baby sister coming.

Dammit.

Thea storms into view, eyes wide, cheeks flushed with anger. “Are you freaking kidding me?” she practically yells, glaring down at him from the top of the stairs. 

“Speedy,” he warns, taking the last couple steps quickly and moving past her. She follows him, of course.

“You’re getting _married_?” she demands, her tone haughty and so very cutting. Sometimes, she’s so like their mother it scares Oliver a little. “And you told the press before you told your own family?”

Oliver winces, because of all the things he’s been trying to balance today, he’s done the worst with anything related to his family. The situation with Felicity has escalated so quickly that he hasn’t had a chance to take a breath, never mind have what will certainly be an awkward and probably slightly hostile conversation with his mother. 

“I didn’t mean to tell the press,” he defends, but he can tell from Thea’s stony expression that she is unmoved. “Mom knows about Felicity,” he offers. Because she _does_ know; she strongly disapproves, in fact, but she knows at least part of the story.

“Right,” Thea snorts. “I could tell from the sour look on her face how _in the know_ she was. Did she offer you Grandma Florence’s diamond for your _secretary_?”

“Hey,” Oliver snaps, turning on his sister with genuine anger. “You don’t talk about Felicity like that. You shouldn’t talk about _anyone_ like that. The Queen family is _not_ morally superior to anyone just by virtue of being Queens. _Or_ being rich.”

Thea flinches, and he knows his rebuke landed. Their mother is practically on voluntary house arrest for her role in the Undertaking, and even if Thea doesn’t know about all of their father’s transgressions in that area, she knows about his affairs. Oliver learned the hard way that people are just people -- they’re bad or good or in between, and none of it has much to do with what they were born into; Thea’s still learning that, but she’s got a level head on her shoulders, and a good heart. The last thing he wants is for her to fall into that same privileged, thoughtless trap he had at her age, thinking he was _better than_ ; thinking the world owed him something just for being _Oliver Queen_.

“I know that,” she argues, and he can tell by the flush on her face that she’s embarrassed by her comment. But she’s too angry to back all the way down just yet. “I don’t understand, Oliver. Don’t you still love Laurel?”

Oliver opens his mouth to answer, then pauses, giving Thea’s question the weight it deserves. She and Laurel were close before the Gambit. He doesn’t know what it was like for Thea while he was gone, when Laurel had every reason in the world to hate his guts, but they seem to have become friends again since Thea’s stint at CNRI. The last thing he wants is for Thea to misunderstand, or blame Laurel, or have any misconceptions about this, so he lets her see the truth on his face when he says, “No. She’ll always be important to me, but Laurel and I are over.”

“Oh,” Thea answers softly. “I-- I didn’t realize, Ollie.” She dips her chin, her long hair slipping past her shoulder to obscure part of her face.

“I didn’t realize it for a long time, either, Speedy.” He ducks slightly, trying to catch her gaze. “Look, we can talk about this some more later, but I’m on a bit of a schedule.”

She narrows her eyes, chin inching back up, and he can see the wheels spinning as she tries to figure him out. “On a schedule and carrying a red dress. Are you taking your _fiancee_ out?”

Oliver ignores the warm fluttering in his chest at the world _fiancee_ , turning away from Thea to head toward his room. ”Something like that,” he agrees.

Thea, he can tell, is immediately suspicious. She sweeps into his room right on his heels, watching closely as he lays Felicity’s dress on the bed. He takes a moment to arrange it to prevent any wrinkles, and when he steps back, he feels a flash of _want_ at the sight of her clothes on his bed. He takes an unsteady breath and turns, walking to his closet to pick out something worthy of the day.

Oliver is not a vain man -- not anymore. He knows he’s attractive, and he occasionally uses that for his own ends. But he’s not the immature, self-important kid who’d craved the feel of admiring eyes on him, who’d needed that kind of vapid validation.

Tonight, though... tonight he wants badly to feel _her_ admiring eyes on him. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s fake. He wants to look his best for her, for their-- their _wedding_.

The pressure of that thought brings everything to a grinding halt. Oliver stands mute in his closet, staring at his selection of suits, paralyzed with indecision. She likes him in grey, right? He thinks she does. But would a charcoal or a black be more appropriate? More _formal_?

“Oh, my God, Ollie,” Thea says, elbowing her way into the closet to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He gives her an aggravated sigh in response.

“It’s kind of adorable,” she teases, bumping his arm with hers.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “What should I wear?”

“To a fancy dinner,” Thea guesses, “and first official outing for the press?”

“A bit, uh,” Oliver shifts his weight, “more formal.”

Beside him, his sister goes utterly still. Then she whirls towards him, whacking his arm. _Hard_. “Are you marrying her _today_?” It’s more an accusation than a question.

Oliver hesitates, and it’s confirmation enough for Thea, who goes strangely rigid. “Is that why mom’s off meeting with the lawyers?” she demands.

His stomach drops. “What? Mom’s meeting with the lawyers?”

But whatever headway he’s made with Thea has vanished. Her expression ices over, and she waves off his concerns about their mother’s actions. “Ask her if you’re so concerned.” Thea crosses her arms, every ounce of her primed for a fight, because he’s somehow managed to hurt her feelings, and Thea reacts to pain with flashes of destructive anger. “Is this about what happened at QC?”

“No,” Oliver answers, then backtracks. “Not really.”

“Ollie,” she warns. 

And Oliver can _feel_ it -- he recognizes this breaking point with his sister. She is an excellent judge of character, and a shrewd young woman. If he lies to her now, she’ll know. He’ll hurt her again and he’s honestly not sure how many more chances he has with Thea. So he turns to face her, forgetting about his sartorial indecision, and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Thea, listen to me. This thing with QC may have,” he searches for a truth he can share with her, “affected the timetable, but it has _nothing_ to do with the way I feel about Felicity.”

It’s far more than he’d planned to tell his sister, far more than he planned to admit at _all_ , actually, but the part of him that longs to have Felicity for real, to _love_ her for real -- that part of him wants his sister to know. He wants Thea and Felicity to get along. He wants two of the most important people in his life to be friends.

But first, he needs Thea to believe him, to realize that he’s telling her the truth about Felicity.

Thea examines him for a long moment, and Oliver can’t _breathe_ until she lurches forward, hugging him tightly. His breath comes out a little shaky, and he tugs her closer.

When she pulls back, Thea’s grinning up at him -- one of those scrunchy-nosed smiles he remembers from the gangly preteen version of his sister. “You love her!” Thea says, sounding absolutely delighted by this development.

Oliver nods. “I do.”

She beams at him. “Well, we’ve got a lot to do!” She reaches for the selection of suits, rifling through quickly. “What time do we leave?”

“ _We_?” Oliver splutters, absently accepting the three-piece suit Thea thrusts at him.

“I’m pissed at you for not inviting _your favorite sister_ to your wedding, Ollie,” she chirps, moving back out into his room. “You’re lucky today’s a special day, so I’ll allow you to make that up to me later.”

But Oliver can hear the hurt under her words, and he follows her, touching her arm to catch her attention. “Thea, I’m sorry. Of course I want you there.”

She jerks a nod, her expression almost bashful. “Then I’ll be there.” Then she frowns, puzzled. “Where is _there_ , exactly?”

“Reno,” Oliver answers. Off of her reaction, he just shrugs. “Felicity’s from Vegas and she promised herself she wouldn’t be one of those people who got married in an Elvis chapel in Vegas.”

Thea pulls a face. “Was an Elvis chapel in Vegas ever really on the table? Because I gotta tell you, big brother, I don’t think that’s going to go over well with the QC board.”

He looks at her askance. “Since when are you a captain of industry?”

But she just gives him one of her careless hand flips. “I’ve picked up some things. But seriously, Ollie, you _better_ not be getting married at an Elvis chapel in _Reno_.”

In all honestly, Oliver has no idea where they’re actually getting married. He’s _pretty_ sure Diggle wouldn’t do that to them. Except Diggle is on record as against this particular plan, so it’s possible he would express his disapproval in the form of finding the tackiest available wedding chapel.

Oliver ignores the slight nausea that mental image induces. “I’m sure we’re not,” he says, not very convincingly.

Thea’s eyebrows jump up. “Oh, my God, you need so much of my help,” she decides.

“Thea, no, we’re--”

“Thea, _yes_!” she interrupts, grinning cheekily. “Now grab a shirt, a tie -- black with a subtle pattern -- and pack your garment bag while I go grab a dress, and then find something for my new sister.”

Thunderstruck, Oliver manages, “Thea, what are you--?”

“You know, _something old, something new_ ,” she answers, spinning around to walk away from him. “Gotta find her something to borrow.” She pauses at the door, turning back to examine the dress on Oliver’s bed. “I’m gonna look at my jewelry.”

Oliver can only watch as Thea practically skips out of the room, excited as the little girl he remembers. The thought of his sister choosing jewelry for Felicity to wear while marrying him -- it makes this excruciatingly real.

Even if it’s _not_. Even if it’ll _never_ be real, Oliver knows now that he’s going to feel it when he says those words to her. He’s going to _feel_ it when she says them back.

Mechanically, he pulls down the garment bag and tosses it on the bed beside Felicity’s dress. He gently packs their clothes together, ignoring the impossible things he feels at the sight of her red dress layered on top of his grey suit. Then he pulls out his phone and considers his options.

 _Slight change of plans_ , he texts to Dig. _May be a couple minutes late_.

& & &

Felicity boards the QC jet with only a small messenger bag holding Oliver’s laptop and her tablet. Oh, and her phone, which is _still_ switched off. 

She’s only flown on the jet twice before, and she’s impressed anew at its casual luxury -- the interior is a pleasing mix of polished oak and sleek metal, with eight big, beige leather seats for passengers. Along the lefthand side of the plane, the seats face each other, with small, sturdy, extendable trays available to be used as a desk or a table. Along the righthand side, all the seats face forward -- and those seats can lay flat for international travel. 

With a grimace, Felicity remembers spending the flight back from Russia curled up on one of those makeshift beds trying to sleep -- or at least trying to avoid any of the awkward conversational opportunities available to her by _appearing_ to be asleep. It left kind of a bad taste in her mouth, so this time, Felicity gravitates to a forward-facing seat on the left; the large extendable tray is just icing on the cake. 

Diggle follows her onto the plane and stops momentarily beside her chosen seat, trying _yet again_ to tell her about the plans he’d made.

For her wedding.

But she can’t think about it. She really can’t let herself go down that path. In fact, she has strict plans on how to keep her nerves at bay the entire trip: she’s going to spend the flight to Reno in full hacker mode, drowning herself in code so that the nerves and the misgivings and the super-inconvenient _longing_ will all just… kind of go away. She’ll have two hours to work on the actual problem they’re facing, two hours to relearn her own supervirus and figure out how to get them all out of this impossible situation.

A small, scared part of her is really hoping she’ll actually solve the problem before they land, entirely removing the reason that she’s agreed to _marry_ Oliver Queen. Because her brain understands the logic of the plan, but her heart is going to be a problem.

So she’s simply decided to hack her way out of trouble -- she’s done it before, and she will do it again. She underlines her intentions by pulling out her tablet and pointedly ignoring Diggle’s question about whether she’d prefer lilies or roses for her bouquet.

 _Her bouquet_. 

She taps the tablet’s screen a little too forcefully, then starts typing nonsense just to get some of this restless energy out. (The nonsense quickly evolves into _HOLY FRAK HOLY FRAK HOLY FRAK_.)

Diggle grumbles something about _ungrateful_ and _ridiculous_ , and makes his way towards the back of the small cabin, settling into one of the single seats and immediately pushing it back to a 45 degree angle. He crosses his arms and closes his eyes.

Felicity feels triumphant for _about_ ten seconds, luxuriating in the solitude and the familiar dance of search results scrolling across her screen. Then all of those awesome nerve-managing, hack-focused plans? They explode into dust when Felicity looks up from her tablet to see not Oliver, but _Thea_ Queen boarding the jet.

They’ve met a handful of times before, and Thea’s always been friendly to Felicity. The younger Queen has never displayed the chilly dismissiveness of Moira Queen, or flashed the kind of attitude that Felicity gets from terrible people like Isabel.

Felicity’s not 100% sure she believes Oliver’s proclamation that Thea is the best of the Queens -- after all, Felicity is pretty partial to _Oliver_ \-- but she genuinely likes the younger woman. She’s usually quite pleased to see Thea, actually. But she’s _usually_ seeing Thea at QC, or maybe at Verdant -- definitely _not_ en route to her and Oliver’s fake-but-legally-binding, super-rushed wedding in Reno.

Which... Thea clearly knows about and is now planning to attend.

“Holy frak,” Felicity mutters to herself.

Thea saunters closer, effortlessly stylish in a cropped jacket over a tank top, leggings, and casually expensive sandals. The entire effect makes Felicity feel a little frumpy, even in her favorite grey dress and pink t-strap heels. Thea drops a large weekender bag to the floor of the jet, kicking it under the seat across from Felicity, then drops down onto the plush leather and folds her hands across her stomach. She flashes Felicity a crooked grin. “Hiya, sis.” 

“Thea,” Oliver admonishes, ducking to fit his frame through the plane’s door. He pauses to hang a garment bag in the small forward galley, and Felicity takes the opportunity to stare openly -- he’s still wearing the unfairly attractive leather jacket, so it’s really his own fault. 

When he moves closer, it doesn’t escape Felicity’s notice that Thea’s sharp gaze is focused on them. No big deal, just Oliver’s cherished little sister trying to decide whether Felicity is good enough for him.

Her heart is pounding a little erratically, and she’s white-knuckling the armrest as she smiles up at Oliver nervously. “Hi.”

His hand lands on her shoulder the way it has dozens of times before, and he watches her with that slightly-warmer-than-normal-broody-Oliver expression, the one he breaks out sometimes that makes her think that maybe, _maybe_ the attraction between them isn’t totally one-sided. Then he leans down and kisses her cheek, lingering for what feels like a small _forever_ with his lips pressed to her skin, and it’s really only the slight scratch of stubble against her skin that provides the proof she needs that, no, she’s _not_ hallucinating. 

Because he doesn’t usually do _that_.

Felicity feels her eyes go wide with shock, and gives herself a little shake. Selling it. Right. He’s just making it _seem_ like there’s something between them, because Thea is their first test, and they have to sell it. Felicity wonders if she should reach for Oliver’s hand, or do something else couple-y. Something like... like... What do couples do in public? Why are her hands sort of hanging in the air in front of her, like she was reaching for an imaginary tray? What is she _doing_? 

She draws a panicky blank, but before she can do something insane like launch herself at him, face first, Oliver holds out a familiar bulky ThinkPad.

“You got her a crappy old laptop for a wedding gift, Ollie?”

Felicity laughs, only a _little_ hysterically. “No, no. He just picked up the crappy old laptop that I own, because...” She can’t think of a convincing reason. “It’s a sentimental favorite,” she decides, hugging the hard plastic case to her chest, letting this tangible piece of her past ground her. “For... for... reasons.” 

Thea makes a face. “Is that your something old?” she asks, pinning Felicity with an incisive gaze. “Because it’d be pretty weird to carry a laptop down the aisle instead of flowers.”

“It would,” Felicity manages, turning a slightly panicked gaze up to Oliver, who rests his hand on her shoulder again. It both calms her, and refocuses all of her energy his way, like a magnet forcing all the pieces of metal swing around in the same direction.

Which isn’t exactly a _new_ phenomenon for her, but this situation has kind of turned everything up to eleven.

“Felicity codes when she’s nervous,” Oliver tells Thea. 

“Codes?” Thea questions. “Like, computer languages?”

“Yes,” Oliver and Felicity answer, almost in unison. Felicity has to look away from the delight on Thea’s face in reaction.

“She’s a genius with computers,” Oliver adds, squeezing her shoulder. 

“I...” But Felicity doesn’t really know what to say to that. So she looks down at the laptop waiting to be cracked open and sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t do this now.” Felicity carefully tucks the oversized laptop into the messenger bag lying at her feet. There’s no way she can dig into the coding with Thea on board, observing everything.

In fact, Thea’s watching her right now, but thankfully seems more amused than suspicious. When the captain announces they’re ready for takeoff, and asks the passengers to please take their seats, Thea shoots her brother a look clearly conveying her intentions to stay right where she is. 

With a resigned sigh, Oliver moves back, shrugging out of his jacket before settling into a seat across the aisle from Diggle. 

“So, Felicity,” Thea begins as the plane taxies, her tone bright, “talk to me about the ceremony.”

“Uh,” Felicity answers so very articulately. Because she has studiously avoided every possible bit of information Diggle has tried to share with her, and has offered no opinions on any aspect of this upcoming farce. Her heart hammers in her chest as she grapples for something, _anything_ to tell Thea. 

Thea tips her head, her carefully crimped hair cascading down across her shoulder. “Mind if I ask why the sudden rush?” Thea asks. “Besides the QC thing--”

“Which I had _nothing_ to do with,” Felicity interjects, both hands in the air in some kind of cross between imploring Thea to believe her and, like, accidental surrender. Grimacing, she clasps her hands together and puts them back in her lap.

Thea waves off her protest, then drops her gaze briefly to Felicity’s midsection and lifts an eyebrow in unspoken question.

“No!” Felicity protests, and this time her hands are very expansively underlining her point, giving Thea the universal STOP sign. Because _no_. “Definitely not! Impossible.” Except -- that’s not the right answer, either. Not for someone who’s supposedly marrying _Oliver Queen, reputed manwhore_. “I mean, not _impossible_ , obviously,” she corrects quickly, forcing a chuckle that sounds more like a cough. “Your brother has quite the sex drive, so of _course_ it _makes sense_ that I might be-- But I’m not. You should know I’m a strong believer in safe sex. Well,” Felicity adds, “Saf _er_ sex, I guess. Contraception has varying success rates, and, of course, condoms are really the only method that addresses sexually transmitted diseases, and, _oh, my God_ , why am I still talking?”

Mouth open, Thea blinks a few times before summoning a response. “Yeah, so if you could spare me any and all information about my brother’s sex life, that would be great.”

“Definitely,” Felicity agrees, cheeks still ferociously hot. She manages to suppress all the additional protestations she can feel banging around in her brain -- things like _I wouldn’t know anything about your brother’s sex life, unfortunately_. 

Because _counterproductive_.

As the plane takes off and gains altitude, their conversation turns to less traumatizing topics -- like how she and Oliver met and how long they’ve been together -- and Felicity tries _very_ hard to stick to the truth as much as possible, and only _confabulate_ around what she and Oliver have already told people about their supposed relationship.

But navigating that casual conversation reveals just how incredibly difficult it is to stay balanced on that line between fact and fiction. Felicity earns a new appreciation for how challenging Oliver’s double life is, and why he finds it so exhausting to lie to his family.

Oliver appears unexpectedly at Felicity’s side, and she’s hit with the most absurd urge to hug him. “Anyone need a drink?” he asks.

“After hearing about your sex drive?” Thea says with an exaggerated, full-body shiver. “ _Absolutely_.”

The look Oliver gives Felicity in response is _definitely_ new to his repertoire. She has no idea what he’s trying to tell her with that stupid face of his, and she can _feel_ the flush light up her cheeks as she imagines _he’s_ imagining her talking about their sex life. _His_ sex life. Whatever.

Felicity briefly considers locking herself in the tiny bathroom for the remainder of the trip. That’s not overreacting, right? “I was talking about -- something else,” she explains. Sort of. “Not--”

“Please,” Thea interrupts, shifting to recross her legs. “Let’s not relive it.”

“You could always stop prying,” Oliver suggests to his sister. 

She grins, unrepentant. “Spoilsport.”

Felicity glances up at Oliver, then asks Thea, “Do you mind if I have a minute with your brother?”

“Ten minutes,” Thea agrees, her tone magnanimous. “But no funny business.” She raises her voice to drown out Oliver’s annoyed protests, keeping her attention focused on Felicity. “Then we start getting you ready for the wedding. I’m _sure_ these two have been no help.”

“Actually, Dig sort of planned the whole thing,” Felicity explains. “All I’m doing is showing up.”

Thea pushes herself up. “You are a remarkably chill bride.” Felicity promptly chokes on air at being referred to as a _bride_ , and Thea pats her shoulder. “ _Mostly_ chill,” she corrects with a kind smile. “I’ll go get details from your bodyguard-slash-wedding planner.”

Once Thea slips past Oliver, he moves to take her abandoned seat, shifting a little in what Felicity would call nervousness. Except he’s almost _never_ nervous, so she’s not really sure what’s going on with him. And, of course, the sudden inability to read Oliver, who’s never been able to properly conceal his emotions from her, is making her even jumpier.

Which she honestly hadn’t thought was possible, considering she just endured a soft-touch interrogation by Thea Queen, who could honestly teach the Arrow some lessons.

Felicity flattens her palms against her thighs, focusing on the soft, smooth fabric of her dress. “Everything okay?” she asks. He lifts one expressive eyebrow, and she flushes. “Other than... you know... the-- _later_.”

“I’m fine,” he answers gruffly. “Sorry about Thea. She can be a lot.”

In earnest, Felicity apologizes to him yet again for starting all of this insanity. “I’m really sorry to add another lie to your life, Oliver.” She keeps her voice low, despite the constant thrum of the jet engines. Oliver leans closer, forearms on the small table between them, those warm blue eyes pinning her in place. “I know how much it bothers you to lie to your sister.”

“I didn’t lie to her,” he answers. Somewhat too vaguely for Felicity’s tastes, but this rather intense eye contact is keeping her from pressing for a better explanation than that. He studies her for a moment, and Felicity feels her heart rate pick up. She’s not sure what he’s looking for, or why she can’t seem to look away. Then Oliver tips his head just enough to relay curiosity. “You wanted to talk?”

The strange _awareness_ between them shatters at his words, and Felicity leans back into the plush leather. Talk. Right. This should be fun.

Nervously, Felicity pulls her bag up onto her lap, tugging free a small set of papers, and places them face down on the small tray table between them. “Less talk, and more… sign some stuff,” she tells him, trying for a disarming smile, and probably landing somewhere more like _vaguely panicked grimace_.

Oliver’s jaw tightens, and he glances at the papers beneath her hand. “What’s that?” he asks, even though she can tell he’s already figured it out. He wouldn’t be glowering quite so much if he hadn’t.

But this is important and she will not be cowed by him. She takes a breath, then dives right in. “I know everything’s moving really fast, but I had some time to research prenuptial agreements, and--”

“No way,” he interrupts. “We already talked about this.” He’s sitting upright now, arms crossed over his broad chest. 

“Uh, I think you mean, I made an excellent, practical suggestion and you summarily dismissed it when we didn’t really have time to argue about it,” Felicity corrects with an edge to her voice. “This is important to me, Oliver.”

He reaches out, tapping his finger on the papers. “There’s no way a document that size can adequately describe my--” He hesitates, shaking his head slightly-- “ _financial position_.” Oliver ignores her indelicate snort. “And we’re not going to do something this important so hastily.”

“We’re getting _married_ hastily,” she shoots back, because _of course_ she can yell the words at him when he’s being stubborn -- she just can’t say them aloud in a normal, modulated tone. Her chest feels tight and her hands are shaking, and she honestly doesn’t know if she’s more freaked out or angry at this point. “And it’s called a _pre_ nuptial agreement, which means we have to do it before the wedding or we can’t do it at all.”

Oliver grimaces, his voice dropping lower. “Then let’s not do it at all.”

“You’re being impossible, Oliver,” she argues. “I’m trying to protect you. There’s no need for a prenup like this to be any more complicated than ‘Everyone leaves with what they brought to the-- the marriage.’” When he opens his mouth to argue, she adds with a bit of viciousness in her tone, “Your incredible wealth doesn’t need to be itemized.”

“We can’t have this conversation right now, Felicity.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “There’s too much going on. We’ll discuss assets later.” 

The combination of his dismissive words and the carefree-billionaire-lounging-about-his-private-jet vibe he’s giving off is just _too much_ and out of nowhere, Felicity is full of white hot fury. “I,” she says, jabbing her finger into the papers she’d drafted with each word for emphasis, “Don’t. Want. Your. _Assets_.”

“I know,” he nearly growls back. “You’ve been clear on that. I’m not worried about this, Felicity, and I don’t understand why you are.”

“Because,” she snaps, not quite realizing how loud she’s getting, “the press is going to ask about this, Oliver. You know they will.” He tries to interrupt, to placate, to calm her down, but she has some things to say and he will sit there and listen. “And you know what the implications will be. You know what the tabloids will say -- they’ll _congratulate_ me on bagging a billionaire, and they’ll talk about my _methods_ , and how I _coerced you_ with my no-doubt _prodigious skills_ , and you and I _both_ know what they mean, Oliver. I am _tired_ of being called a gold-digger and a whore.” 

She stops short, breathing hard, already bracing herself for his response.

But Oliver doesn’t answer right away; he just stares back at her for a long moment. “I will make it _very_ clear how much I value you, Felicity. I will use every bit of media savvy I learned to keep that kind of filth to a minimum. But,” he shrugs helplessly, “I won’t sign a prenup. Not like this, Felicity.”

She glares at him, but she has seen this particularly mulish expression on his face before, and she knows no logic will sway him. “Fine,” she snaps. “We’ll get an annulment instead, and then _you_ can field questions from the press about us never consummating _anything_.”

Her cheeks are flushed with anger and embarrassment, but she’s too mad to even care whether Diggle and Thea overheard any of that. 

“Felicity,” Oliver starts.

She stands, pushing past him with a muttered, “I need some air.”

Of course, there’s not really anywhere she can go on this _tiny plane hurtling through the sky_ , but she storms off to the small galley -- all of ten feet away, at most -- and leans against the small prep space until she’s pretty confident she won’t actually hurl a can of Coke at Oliver. 

With carefully controlled motions, she pops open a Coke and takes two long gulps. 

“Everything okay?” asks Diggle, startling her so badly that she nearly drops the can. “Guess not,” he says, waiting for her to turn and face him. The QC jet is beautiful and well-appointed, but it’s _clearly_ not made for a man John Diggle’s size -- when he stands upright, his head almost brushes the ceiling, and his shoulders take up basically the entire galley. “Anything I can do?”

Felicity is both touched by his support, and mindful of coming between Diggle and Oliver. However frustrated she is with Oliver, this _insane_ situation is still essentially her fault. So she musters up a smile for Dig and answers lightly, “When I need you to beat up Oliver, I’ll let you know.”

Dig rolls his eyes. “It’s cute that you think I can beat him up. On a good day, I can hold my own.”

She grins at him, amusement breaking through her anger adrenaline surge. “Okay, when I need you to _hold your own_ to prove some sort of overprotective big brother-ish point, I’ll let you know.”

“Felicity--”

“Everything’s fine, John,” she tells him. Her statement is aspirational at best, so when he expresses his utter disbelief with a twitch of his eyebrow, she sighs in resignation. “Everything _will be_ fine,” she corrects. “I promise.”

Now, if she can just convince herself of that, maybe she’ll get through her wedding. To Oliver.

 _Oh, god_.

& & &

Growing up a Queen, Oliver learned at a very young age about the importance of signifiers in his appearance. He was taught when to wear cufflinks, and which shoes are appropriate for what occasions, and how to flawlessly tie bowties and Windsor knots, all in the service of attending events in _appropriate_ attire, in clothes that reinforce the importance and solemnity of whatever is happening. 

He may not adhere to the classist underpinnings of a lot of those cultural norms anymore, but he’s also a man in possession of a vast wardrobe that he is able to put to good use. Ever since the island, he finds suits constricting in a way the form-fitting leather isn’t, but Oliver has attended hundreds of functions requiring formal dress, and has always managed to put himself together without assistance. 

Today, though, the simple knowledge that he’s about to marry Felicity Smoak is making his hands shake too badly to tie his goddamn tie.

Frustrated, he tosses it aside and takes a short walk -- from the modest dressing room Diggle’d deposited him in to get changed, out into the chapel itself.

When Oliver pictured a quickie wedding in Reno, he’d had no idea that Diggle would be able to find a reasonably nice resort with a small, interfaith chapel able to accommodate their needs. But somehow, he had. 

The resort itself is large and sprawling, and more than half of it is the actual casino. On their way in, they’d walked by a large chapel with gaudy crystal chandeliers and an overwhelming abundance of flowers that is much more in line with what Oliver expected. He’d been pleasantly surprised to see the chapel he and Felicity are getting married in -- it’s a small, airy room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the snowy landscape, simple polished wooden floors, and a small raised dais upfront topped by a chuppah. 

A series of small floor planters filled with vibrant red roses line the makeshift aisle, but the seats have been cleared out of the room in deference to the fact that this wedding party has exactly four members.

 _Wedding party_.

Every time Oliver lets himself think directly about why he’s here, he feels this surge of heat, an expanding bubble of something unnamable in his chest. There’s no one to talk him down -- Thea had whisked Felicity away more than an hour ago to get ready, and Diggle’d left Oliver to his own devices, presumably so Diggle could see to any last minute details.

Feeling anxious and unmoored, Oliver wanders back into his dressing room and glares momentarily at the tie. Snatching it off the small dresser, he loops it around his neck and tries again. His fingers are clumsy and cold, like he can’t quite feel the tips, and he makes another mess of the attempted Windsor knot.

So here Oliver stands in a crisp white shirt, dark green cufflinks at his wrists, a slim-fitting pair of trousers, and he’s foiled by this goddamned tie. “ _Fuck_.”

“Need some help?” 

Exasperated, Oliver turns to face Diggle. He’s in a dark suit, too, and Oliver wonders how on earth he had time to swing by his own apartment to grab it. Diggle’s tie is maroon and perfectly tied, and Oliver is not above glaring at it momentarily.

Oliver yanks his own crooked knot out, letting the ends dangle down his chest. “There’s something wrong with this tie,” he says, with only a slight hint of the unreasonable of desperation he’s feeling. His breath is coming a little too fast, and he’s oddly thirsty.

Dig arches one eyebrow. “Yeah, this is all the tie’s fault.”

“Dig,” Oliver warns, stalking to the side table, twisting the cap off of a bottle of water, and taking two large gulps. His vest and suit jacket hang from the back of the door, and he takes another large sip of water at the sight.

“Look, man,” Diggle says, “you know my feelings on this. I understand the logic behind it, but I don’t think either of you has thought through how this is going to change everything.”

“It won’t,” Oliver argues, because he _needs_ what he’s saying to be true. He can’t do all of this to protect her and end up ruining everything in the process. He _can’t_. “As soon as the investigation is over, we’ll take care of it.”

Dig shakes his head, holding out a hand for the silky charcoal tie even as he disagrees with the reason Oliver’s going to be wearing it. “This isn’t lying to Lance down at the station,” Diggle says, looping the tie around his own neck and starting to create a Windsor knot. “This isn’t calling her your girlfriend in front of your mother. There are real-life consequences to what you’re doing here today.” 

“Goddamn it, Dig, this better not be about the prenup.” He’s rigid, nearly trembling with all of these _feelings_ , and it would be _so much easier_ if he could just channel it into anger. 

“Oh, no,” Diggle says with a little smile, defusing Oliver’s ire in the most unsatisfying way. “I agree with you on that. Girl deserves hazard pay, marrying you.”

“She’s not _really_ marrying me,” Oliver points out, and he hates how fucking sad it makes him that that’s true. It’s _tactical_ , not genuine, but why should that bother him? Since when is he the guy that even _wants_ a wedding? He’d made the decision to be alone, and to limit his romantic interactions to simple flings, and it was the _right_ decision. So where is this yearning for something more even coming from?

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Diggle moves closer, the partially created Windsor knot still in his hands as he pins Oliver with a weight look. “There’s nothing _platonic_ between the two of you, so there was no chance this would ever be a simple decision made by friends.”

“You won’t talk me out out of this.” Oliver tries very, very hard to keep his tone neutral. 

“I’m aware,” Dig answers dryly, his hands busy again with Oliver’s tie. “I know you two are stubborn enough to go through with this regardless of my counterarguments. I just wanted to say that, no matter how _fake_ you think this marriage is, there are very real ways you two could break what’s between you.” Knot created, Diggle carefully loosens it and slides it over his head, offering it to Oliver. “Some part of you knows that already, or you’d be able to tie your own damn tie.”

Lips pressed tightly together in irritation, Oliver accepts the tie and slips it on, turning to the mirror to fix his collar before carefully sliding the knot to his throat. He fusses with the knot for a bit longer, then smooths the fabric. He can’t find it in him to argue with Diggle. There’s no reason why he should be _this_ nervous for a fake, temporary marriage. But as he pulls on the dark vest and buttons it, then shrugs into his suit jacket, he is full of a bright, boundless anxiety.

He checks his image in the mirror, smoothing away imagined wrinkles and then reaching up to scratch his fingers through his stubble. He passes a hand over his hair, making sure it’s not too unruly.

“Oliver?” Diggle waits until Oliver takes a deep, almost steady breath and turns to face him before adding, “Just please be careful.”

“I won’t hurt her,” Oliver promises, and he knows that regardless of what he says in a few minutes, this is one vow he will not break.

“Not on purpose, I know that,” Diggle answers, and before Oliver can argue, he adds, “She’s not the only one who could get hurt. Just -- be careful with this.”

Oliver holds his friend’s gaze, giving this conversation and Diggle’s concern the attention they deserve. “I will.”

A genuine smile breaks across Diggle’s face, and he slaps Oliver on the back. “Now let’s got get you married!”

That bright, overpowering anxiety is back, and as Oliver moves into the chapel, he can’t seem to take a full breath. Absently, he shakes hands with the officiant, a nice woman whose name he completely misses, and nods his agreement when Diggle explains everything will start in just a few minutes before disappearing again. 

Oliver blinks, realizing he’s standing alone under the chuppah, near the large floor-to-ceiling windows. For a man with a finely honed instinct for self-preservation, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize there’s both a small string quartet in the corner actually playing the music he’d barely noticed, the officiant over near the side of the room studying a sheaf of papers, and a videographer set up near the large doorway. When Oliver makes eye contact with the videographer, a wiry young man wearing a suit that doesn’t quite cover his knobby wrists, Oliver knows from the kid’s fidgety, nervous smile that _this_ is the person who’s going to sell them out to TMZ for fifty thousand dollars.

Before Oliver can go all Arrow-voice on the kid and threaten him into silence, the music changes, the officiant appears beside him, and Oliver’s gaze snaps to the doorway. Thea enters, wearing a dark navy dress and carrying a sprig of bright white flowers. She’s grinning at him as she moves closer, coming to stand right beside him where he’d assumed Diggle would be.

Thea links her arm through his and leans closer. “Diggle’s walking Felicity down the aisle and standing up for her. That makes me your best sister.” She shifts against him, going up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m really happy to be here for you, Ollie.”

Throat tight, Oliver can only manage a nod and a watery smile in response. Then he sees movement from the corner of his eye and turns back towards the door, where Diggle is standing, holding out his hand for Felicity. 

Felicity steps into the doorway and takes Diggle’s arm, a large spray of white roses carried in her left hand. She’s wearing a red cocktail dress, but she is his _bride_ and everything hits him at once.

Oliver’s breath stops in his lungs as he takes her in. He loves her in red, and _this_ dress is stunning -- the fabric clings to her torso, highlighting the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. The skirt falls nearly to her knee, swishing softly as she walks towards him in a pair of glittering silver heels. Her long blonde hair is down, cascading in rich waves down her back, and she’s wearing bright pink lipstick and her familiar glasses.

She’s so beautiful it makes his chest ache. 

He sucks in a gasping breath and tries to get ahold of himself. Felicity meets his gaze, a small, tentative smile on her face. When her gaze skims down his body and she tilts her head in wordless confusion, Oliver realizes he’s standing here with his palm pressed against his chest in a futile attempt to calm his pounding heart. He can feel the color in his cheeks as he shifts, dropping his arms to his sides again, but her smile only grows in reaction.

As Felicity draws closer, Oliver recognizes the diamond necklace nestled against her skin -- it’s one of Thea’s favorites, an understated piece passed down from their grandmother. Felicity is wearing a Queen heirloom to marry him, and he wants so badly to thank his sister for her thoughtfulness, but he can’t seem to tear his attention from the beautiful woman walking toward him. 

Eyes locked with his, Felicity steps up onto the dais and joins him under the chuppah. Thea and Diggle shift back, standing back a couple steps, and as the musicians finish the song, Oliver just lets the moment wash over him.

He reaches out, taking Felicity’s hand in his. Her eyes are wide and a little shell-shocked behind her glasses. He knows he’s smiling down at Felicity in a way that he has no business doing, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. This entire situation is crazy and he knows Dig is right about it being a powder keg.

But standing here, moments from marrying Felicity, Oliver can’t bring himself to regret it.

Leaning in, he squeezes her fingers gently and murmurs, “You’re beautiful.” He pauses, hating the rest of what he has to say. “The video of this will be on TMZ in an hour, we need to make it believable.”

The musicians hit their final note and Oliver straightens back up. Felicity’s smile falters and she pales. He shifts closer, hoping to reassure her. He’s not not the tiniest bit surprised when she glances around the room, her attention catching on the camera recording the ceremony, and turns back to him with that familiar determined glint in her eye. Felicity has never really been the shy, retiring type.

“Dearly beloved,” the officiant begins, and Oliver feels his nerves spike just as Felicity’s fingers squeeze his tightly. When he squeezes back, Felicity’s gaze snaps to him, and they watch each other. He’s been fascinated with her since he met her, and here in this moment, he has _permission_ to let his gaze wander over her familiar features. She presses her lips together, and he sees the hint of her dimples. When she swallows, his gaze drops to her throat, then to the diamond necklace at her collarbone. 

But mostly he stares into her eyes and she stares back. Their connection is the only thing that eases the anxiety in his chest. 

Oliver honestly doesn’t register much of the introductory words -- he’s too busy trying to wrap his mind around this. Until Thea nudges him, and he startles a bit, glancing reflexively at the officiant, who’s watching them with a kind smile. “Would you like me to repeat that?”

Oliver clears his throat. “Yes, please.”

“Do you, Oliver Jonas, take Felicity Megan to be your wife, promising to cherish and protect her, whether in good fortune or adversity, and to seek together with her a life hallowed by your faith?”

It takes a moment for his brain to come back online, but Oliver nods, turning back to Felicity and murmuring, “I do.”

Felicity’s mouth forms a perfect “o” of surprise. She doesn’t look away from him, though as the officiant asks her, “Do you, Felicity Megan, take Oliver Jonas to be your husband, promising to cherish and protect him, whether in good fortune or adversity, and to seek together with him a life hallowed by your faith?”

Her fingernails dig into his palm, and her voice is whisper soft when she answers, “I do.” 

A hint of confusion flutters across her face as she watches his reaction, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that, because the officiant asks, “And do you have the rings?”

For a moment, Oliver is consumed by blind panic. Rings? He hadn’t even _thought_ about--

“Right here,” Diggle interjects, appearing at Felicity’s shoulder and holding out two simple platinum bands. 

Felicity’s hand slips from his as they each pick a ring from Diggle’s palm; Oliver doesn’t miss the fact that both of their hands are trembling. 

“Excellent,” the officiant says, “Now Oliver, place Felicity’s ring on her finger and repeat after me: I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.”

Oliver feels like he’s having an out of body experience as he takes this small circle of platinum and eases it onto her finger, his gaze catching on her bright purple nail polish. “I am my beloved’s,” he says, his voice gruff and nearly inaudible, “and my beloved is mine.” There’s far more truth in these words than Oliver expected.

Felicity’s eyes are so, so wide behind her glasses, and he wonders if she can tell he feels these vows in a way that makes no sense for the situation. But she just gives him a quick little nod, and looks down, slipping the cool metal ring onto his finger. It catches at the knuckle, and she makes a perfectly Felicity little noise of panic. Oliver huffs a laugh, wriggling his fingers to help her get the ring all the way on. He catches her hand and holds on. 

Then she looks up and says, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.”

His grip on her hand tightens reflexively, because hearing those words from her break through all of his resistance.

And suddenly Oliver is all out of patience. 

He knows they’re married now, he knows there are people watching, and that the ceremony is being recorded. But he also knows he gets to kiss her, whether the officiant's gotten to that part or not. He’s _supposed_ to kiss her to seal the deal. And he's supposed to make it believable for the audience. So it’s not going to be like that momentary ambush in the police station, that fleeting kiss that he’d nearly missed. Oh, no. 

Oliver decides that right now, in this moment, he will kiss his wife the way he wants to -- truly and honestly.

“Felicity,” he murmurs, leaning in even as she goes rigid with surprise. His free hand is on her hip, pulling her closer, even before his lips touch hers. Felicity stills for a long moment, her lips unmoving beneath his, and then her fingernails dig into his skin and she’s kissing him back. She goes up on her tiptoes, her left hand clasped tightly in his, pressed between their bodies. His free hand on her hip slides around, low on her back, urging her closer even as her right palm lands on his bicep, gripping him tightly, and her mouth opens for him.

That’s when the circumstances and the audience and the all the rest of it just falls away, and Oliver sinks into the kiss.

END CHAPTER FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, friends. I'm trying to balance this (which, to no one's surprise, has grown ridiculously longer than I'd imagined it would be) with writing my Olicity Fic Big Bang story, which means my updates to this may be a bit less frequent than when I started posting. OTOH, my wordy bitch tendencies mean they'll usually be LONG updates? :)


	6. Chapter 6

Under a simple chuppah in a small wedding chapel in Reno, Felicity kisses Oliver with the kind of abandon she could never have imagined.

She has always suspected that Oliver would be a ridiculously good kisser. Leaving aside the vexing fact that he’s kissed half of the Western hemisphere, the man tends to focus very intensely on something when he wants to do it right.

And, God, is he doing it right.

The room falls away. Their audience, the reality that they’re _not_  together, that this is for show -- all of that fades into a distant kind of static as her entire body _leans_  into his, wanting more.

Because this isn’t that rushed, relatively chaste kiss at the police station. This isn’t Oliver reacting sluggishly to circumstances.

This is Oliver _kissing_  her. For real.

His lips are soft but persuasive, moving against hers with varying pressure, and he opens for her eagerly when she can’t resist nipping that bottom lip. Oliver actually _moans_ , his hand clasping her hip tighter in reaction, and she slips her tongue into his mouth, teasing him, tasting him. Her fingers dig into his bicep, urging him closer until she is pressed against him from her breasts to her hips, their clasped left hands squished between their bodies.

And they _kiss_.

They kiss until her body is humming with arousal and awareness, until all the lies she’s told herself about _it’s only a crush_  are in tatters at her feet. They kiss like they were born to kiss each other.

She has no idea how long they are lost in each other, only that entirely too soon, Oliver stiffens against her, and then eases back, pressing two more soft, lingering kisses to her lips. They’re still plastered together when Felicity convinces her eyes to open. Oliver’s face is inches from her, his breath hot against her skin, his eyes so impossibly blue this close. When she meets his gaze, he presses one last sweet, chaste kiss to her lips, then straightens up.

Reality comes crashing back, and Felicity’s eyes go wide as she glances at the officiant, who’s smiling at them. “Oh,” Felicity says, feeling the heat in her cheeks. “Sorry. You were-- you were saying something?”

The officiant chuckles. “I was simply going to say that you may kiss, but your new husband beat me to it.”

Felicity’s gaze snaps to Oliver at the word _husband_ , to find him staring back at her with an oddly hopeful expression on his impossibly handsome face. “Husband,” she wheezes, feeling a little like she’s been hit with a bucket full of icy cold water. “Right.”

Thea bursts into Felicity’s vision, clearly unable to wait any longer, and captures Oliver and Felicity both in a surprisingly strong hug. “Congratulations!” Thea yells. When she releases them, she looks up at Oliver with a broad, beaming smile. “I can’t believe you’re _married_! Mom’s gonna flip.”

With that stinging reminder of just what kind of reception they can expect, Felicity loosens her grip on Oliver, suddenly hyper aware of the band of metal on her finger. She avoids his gaze, turning instead to Diggle, who’s watching her with a kind but knowing smile. He holds out his arms and Felicity falls into them, overcome, suddenly, with all of _this_.

She married Oliver. _Married_  him. It’s -- it’s going to be actual, national news, and Thea is right that Moira’s going to _strongly_ disapprove. And, oh, God, _her_  mother. Felicity cannot even think about how Donna Smoak will react to this news -- or to being left out of the ceremony.

The panic that Oliver had so very thoroughly kissed out of her is back, full force, and she pushes her forehead against Diggle’s chest, ignoring the way her glasses dig into her nose.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Felicity,” Dig murmurs, his big hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“Are we done?” Thea asks, and Felicity straightens, turning in Diggle’s embrace to find Oliver watching her with an unreadable expression. “I mean,” Thea clarifies, pointing from Oliver to Felicity, her gaze on the officiant, “are they married now?”

“Yes,” the officiant answers. “Oliver and Felicity are married -- we just need a couple signatures to file the documentation.”

“Great!” Thea claps, turning back to Oliver, Felicity, and Diggle with a slightly terrifying smile. “Listen, TMZ is gonna have this in an hour. Hell, CNN will have this in an hour. Announce it yourselves.”

Oliver’s brow gets that irresistible little furrow in it. “What are you talking about?”

The answering grin on Thea’s face is positively devilish when she squeals, “Wedding selfie!”

“Thea,” Oliver sighs.

“I post it to Instagram,” Thea argues, “and it’s done. The world knows -- no press releases, no huge paydays for anyone working here. No chance for Mom to jump in front of a microphone,” she adds sardonically.

Felicity feels vaguely nauseated at the thought of Moira airing her particular grievances, and finds that she can’t argue with Thea’s logic. The girl knows her way around the media which, Felicity supposes, must come in quite handy for members of the Queen family. Felicity stoically avoids thinking that she’s a member of the Queen family now, because she’s _not_. Not really. She _won’t_  be, anyway.

She’s keeping her name, and she’ll be divorced soon enough.

Which is… a really depressing thought for a woman who’s been married for less than ten minutes. Felicity forces herself to focus, then nods her acceptance of Thea’s plan. Once she’s in, Oliver agrees just as readily.

Thea, Felicity has learned over the last few hours, is bright and caring, and she has an incredible eye. She steps back, examining the chuppah critically, and then urges Felicity and Oliver to shift to the side, posing them beside the fabric-twined post. Then she frowns at them. “Maybe look like you like each other?” she chides, shoving her brother’s shoulder to get him to move closer to Felicity. To her surprise, Oliver obliges easily. “Geez,” Thea teases, “couldn’t keep your hands off each other long enough to be pronounced husband and wife and now you’re all weird and stiff.”

The observation simply makes Felicity feel _more_  awkwardly self-aware as she takes a measured step closer to Oliver. He shifts to stand partially behind her, so her left shoulder is nestled against his chest and her elbow, when she tries to figure out what to do with her hands, brushes against the firm muscle of his abdomen. She startles slightly when his right hand lands on her hip, sliding forward a bit onto her stomach, which feels a _little_  possessive. And _definitely_  familiar. Like he’s _used_  to touching her.

It’s a little overwhelming to feel his big warm palm through her dress, and the solid weight of his body pressed up against her. Not that Felicity is complaining.

Thea nods her approval, then moves to stand at Oliver’s left shoulder angled slightly away; she lifts her phone up to improve the angle. Felicity can see on the screen that the picture will catch Thea’s smiling face in the front corner, and a little bit more of Oliver and Felicity beside her, with the chuppah post framing the shot. “Ready?” Thea asks.

Felicity nods and tries to tell her mouth to smile even though her whole face feels like stiff plastic -- unyielding and maybe kind of breakable under enough pressure.

Oliver says, “One second,” his voice low and rumbly in her ear.

She turns her head to look up at him curiously, and, wow, he is so very close to her. Before she can react, he’s got her left hand in his, lifting it up. When he presses her knuckles to his lips, his eyes intent on hers, Felicity lets out a surprised little laugh.

It’s that moment that Thea captures.

When Felicity looks at the picture, if she didn’t know better, she’d think it was real. Thea’s grin is cheerful and more than a little knowing, as if she and the viewer are commiserating over just how oblivious to anyone else the newly married couple beside her are. Felicity can’t really reconcile the Oliver and Felicity in the picture to reality -- because the man in the picture is intent on the woman, a hint of a dimple on his cheek as he smiles against her skin, against his ring on her finger. The picture captured Felicity in profile, smiling broadly up at him, her own dimple on display. And there against her collarbones, framed by the bright red spaghetti straps of her dress, sparkles the utterly stunning diamond necklace Thea loaned her.

They look _happy_. They look _in love_.

Felicity swallows hard and nods at Thea, who’s poised to post the photo to her instagram with the caption: _Ollie can’t keep his eyes off his new wife! Welcome to the family, Felicity!_

Thea hits send, and then throws her arms around Felicity, hugging her tightly. “Thanks for making my brother happy,” she whispers. When she pulls back, Thea’s eyes seem a bit watery, but she claps her hands together and is back in full wedding planner mode. “Okay! Let’s do this.”

The next few minutes pass in something of a blur. Felicity and Oliver take a few more pictures -- one with Diggle, one with the officiant, one of just the two of them as Felicity holds her nearly forgotten white bouquet. Then they’re led over to a small side table to sign their marriage certificate.

 _Marriage certificate_.

Felicity complies numbly, moving where the officiant tells her to, signing on the dotted line, posing as Thea directs. She’s lost in her own head, grappling for some way to navigate this new, insane world where she is _Oliver Queen’s wife_.

It’s enough of a challenge just to handle playing at being _Oliver_ ’s wife -- to pretend to be married to the kind, emotionally stunted man that she truly does adore. But when his public persona and the weight of his family’s wealth and fame are layered on top... Well, it’s daunting.

And inescapable now. Despite the string quartet still playing gamely on in the corner, Felicity can hear the near-constant notifications from Thea’s phone.

She wonders how the headlines are worded.

She wonders what the commenters are saying.

“Never read the comments,” she murmurs to herself, smiling a little at this new, scary application of a cardinal internet rule.

Felicity blinks back to awareness when Oliver’s hand takes hers, squeezing her fingers to get her attention. They’d moved out into a large, well-appointed hallway next to the chapel when Felicity hadn’t been paying attention. When she glances around, she finds that Thea and Diggle are several feet away discussing… well, who knows what, leaving her with Oliver.

Her new _husband_.

The man she, okay, fine, basically kind of loves?

Maybe?

Probably.

Almost certainly.

Not that it matters much, in the end, since Oliver most assuredly does not love her. Even if there were moments during the ceremony where she could’ve _sworn_  he felt something.

When Felicity steels herself to meet his gaze, their eyes lock and hold in one of those intense wordless moments that happen sometimes between them. Her stomach swoops with a hit of _want_ , and suddenly the wedding and the fallout and even the attack on QC fade, because all she can think about is that _kiss_. He’d definitely participated more than willingly in that amazing kiss. Her cheeks flush and she struggles to hold his gaze as he studies her.

“Felicity,” he begins, his voice dripping with reluctance. “About-- About before, are we... okay?”

Chest feeling oddly hollow, Felicity nods but pulls her hand free from his. “Of course.”

Because of course it was a ruse. Of course it was a cover story, a _tactic_. He’s kissed a million women and she needs to remember that for Oliver, emotions and making out are not necessarily related the way they are for her -- at least when it comes to him. She needs to stop trying to read _feelings_  into that kiss, no matter how real it felt to her.

No matter how heart-stoppingly good it was.

She takes a breath and lifts her chin. “Are we heading back now?”

“Oh, no,” Thea answers, whirling back around to grin at them. “Dig told me you guys are waiting on the official honeymoon ‘cause of all that stuff with QC, but there’s no way you’re just gonna get on the corporate jet and fly home to spend your _wedding night_  at the mansion. With _mom_.”

Felicity’s stomach drops, and she starts to shake her head. “No, no, no,” she says, a little desperately. “We can’t stay. We don’t have reservations. The plane, the pilots -- they must be waiting for us.”

“Everything’s taken care of,” Thea answers, producing a key card from her bag with what Felicity feels is excessive amounts of smug satisfaction. “We fly back tomorrow at ten.”

“But,” Felicity tries, her gaze bouncing from Thea to Dig and back again. Because she didn’t bring anything to Reno besides her electronics and her normal three tubes of lipstick. “No, but I don’t have pajamas.”

Diggle presses his lips together to choke back a smile while Thea smirks openly. “If you need pajamas on your wedding night,” Thea drawls, “my brother is definitely doing things _very_  wrong.”

“Thea,” Oliver warns.

Felicity wants badly to argue, but she’s pretty sure she’s non-verbal from embarrassment.

“Felicity?” She looks up at Oliver, who’s watching her warily. And apparently she’s put far too much stock in their ability to communicate through looks up to now, because she is desperately projecting _we need to leave right now_  at him, but all he says is, “We can fly home in the morning, right?”

She glances at Dig, who’s giving her his best _you made your bed_ -face, and then Thea, who’s silently mouthing, _Please, please, please_  to her.

Before Felicity resigns herself to a night of look-but-don’t-touch torture, she fixes Oliver with her best stubborn glare. “I need my bag,” she says. Because she’s going to need _something_  to occupy her brain and her fingers so that she doesn’t obsess over that kiss or, you know, make grabby hands in Oliver’s general (probably shirtless) direction.

She needs her laptop. She needs to work.

She needs control over _at least one small thing_  right now.

It takes a moment, but she can see when Oliver understands what she’s saying. She is puzzled when she sees a flash of what looks like disappointment in his face before he nods and says, “Of course. Dig?”

Diggle moves to the side of the hallway, where an unnoticed collection of their bags sits. He pulls Felicity’s messenger bag and Oliver’s garment bag free and hands them both to Oliver. Thea steps closer and brandishes the keycard before them. “It’s called the Royal Honeymoon Suite,” she sing-songs. “Seemed appropriate.”

Oliver sighs irritably and snags the keycard. “Ten a.m.,” he confirms, then turns to Felicity. His voice is softer when he offers her his arm. “Shall we?”

 _This_ , Felicity thinks as she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, _is going to be a long night_.

& & &

Oliver can feel Thea's and Dig's curious stares as he and Felicity move towards the elevator bank, but tries his best to ignore it.

He is painfully aware of Felicity beside him, her hand in the crook of his elbow. He’s always been _aware_  of her, but now things are intensified by a factor of ten. Because he's kissed her properly, the way he'd only recently learned he wanted to, and there’s no way to unlearn the feel of her mouth moving against his.

It’d felt better than he had any right to expect. It'd been full of promise, overflowing with that combustible kind of energy that’s always flowed between them.

It'd been a taste of heaven.

And he can never have that again.

In fact, he shouldn't be savoring the feel of her small hand on his arm right now, but he will stubbornly take these liberties for the last couple of minutes he can. He knows once they get in the room, Felicity will retreat into work. He understands the impulse, and wishes he had something to occupy his mind, because he suspects sleep will be particularly elusive tonight.

As the elevator doors slide closed, Felicity takes a slightly unsteady breath and steps back, pulling her hand free. The distance between them feels insurmountable, somehow. They're _married_  -- which still seems unreal to Oliver despite the copy of their marriage certificate tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket -- but he's never felt more disconnected from her as he does when the elevator dings softly and she steps out without looking at him.

Oliver follows her down the hall, maintaining the distance she seems to want despite the hollow ache in his chest. In the uncomfortable silence, he unlocks the door, allowing her to pass first. Felicity walks into the spacious room cautiously, as if she's expecting the press to lurch out from behind the incredibly large bed that is the focal point of the room.

"Oh," Felicity says, stopping short, her back stiff. "Okay."

The immense wooden four-poster bed would be draw the eye just based on its sheer size, its deep maroon canopy, and the mound of red and pink throw pillows on top. But tonight, it is also sprinkled liberally with white rose petals. To celebrate their wedding night.

Oliver’s shoulders go rigid. He’s supposed to sleep in that luxurious bed with Felicity. And not touch her.

Yeah, there’s no way he’s sleeping tonight.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, Felicity turns back towards Oliver without actually looking him in the eye. "I should... I need to call my mother." Then she freezes. “Where’s my phone?”

Oliver lifts a placating hand to stay impending panic. “It’s in here with your laptop and your tablet,” he says, holding the bag out to her.

“Right.” She meets his gaze for a fleeting moment as she reaches for her bag. “Thanks.”

He nods and turns away, moving toward the closet to hang the garment bag as Felicity edges carefully past him and closes the bathroom door behind her with a quiet, decisive click.

Oliver knows he should call his mother, too, and get _that_  conversation over with; his phone is tucked into the garment bag, but he can’t quite bring himself to fish it out yet. Instead, he tugs at his tie with unsteady fingers, and ends up yanking Diggle’s carefully crafted knot loose and tossing the fabric aside.

He’s exhausted, suddenly, and he doesn’t understand why. He’s tired, but also wound up and aching to punish whoever’s responsible for the attack on QC and the suggestion that Felicity is behind it, but he hasn’t so much as punched a training dummy or a heavy bag in days. There’s no reason he should feel this sudden fatigue.

Sighing, he shrugs out of his suit jacket, then unbuttons and pulls off the vest, hanging them carefully in the closet before starting on the buttons of his dress shirt.

And then he freezes, because Felicity’s murmured conversation has suddenly turned loud enough for him to overhear clearly. He is torn between the need to respect her privacy, and a greedy curiosity to learn more about this woman he knows so well in some ways, and barely at all in others.

“Mom,” she says, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. “Mom. _Mom_. If you’ll stop talking for five seconds I--” There’s a pause, and Oliver regulates his breathing, slow and steady and _quiet_ , so he can hear her. “I’m sorry. Mom, no, I really am sorry. We weren’t going to-- Mom. Mom. _Mom_!”

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest as her uneasiness registers. He doesn’t know much about Felicity’s family; she doesn’t speak of them very often. From the background check on her when he first considered reading her in, he knows her father’s not around and her mother works at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas. Bland facts provide no color, no detail, but he’d never imagined that she would have a difficult relationship with her mother -- with _anyone_ , really -- because she is just so incredibly kind. From the sharp, frustrated tone of Felicity’s voice, he knows the conversation isn’t going well. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in that he hasn’t unwittingly driven a wedge between Felicity and her mother.

“Mom, would you _listen_!” Felicity nearly shouts. There’s another long pause, while Oliver waits on tenterhooks, and then a quiet sigh. When Felicity speaks again, he is stunned to hear the resignation in her voice. “No, I didn’t do this to hurt you, Mom.”

 _Fuck_.

He recognizes that tone; he’s heard it from her more than once when she’d _expected_  him to disappoint her and he’d lived down to her expectations. Whatever this reaction is from her mother, it’s hurting her even though she’d _known_  it was coming. He aches for the pain he can hear in Felicity’s voice; he hates that he’s had any hand in making her unhappy.

Oliver moves away from the bathroom, pausing only to grab his phone from his garment bag. He has very little battery life left, and a ridiculous number of missed calls. He ignores them all, scrolling to his mother’s contact information and pressing “CALL.”

“Oliver,” she answers before the second ring, “please tell me this is a tasteless joke.”

He works his jaw, taking a moment to temper his words before he answers. “Why were you talking to the lawyers today?”

“Oliver,” his mother answers sharply, “tell me you didn’t really marry that girl.”

“Her name is Felicity,” Oliver retorts, “and she is my wife. I know better than to expect congratulations from you, but you will at least address her with the respect she deserves.”

There’s a tense pause, until she says, “I don’t understand these poor decisions you’re making, Oliver.”

“So you talked to the lawyers to -- what? -- try to cut me off?” he scoffs.

“Oliver, please. I wouldn’t do that.” She’s using that slightly patronizing tone that used to get right under his skin as a dumb 21-year-old trying to rebel against what felt like stifling expectations. “I was simply re-familiarizing myself with the terms of your trust and the family trust.”

Oliver runs a palm over his face in irritation. “I am not worried about my _assets_ , mother.”

“I’m not either,” she answers, “because we very carefully updated the language of your trust fund during your... less responsible years.”

“I can’t believe the conversation you want to have in the wake of my _wedding_  is about my trust fund,” Oliver grits out, his thumb absently twisting the new metal band on his ring finger. “You haven’t even asked if I’m happy.”

She pauses for a moment, and when she speaks again, there’s a note of sadness in her tone. “I saw your face when that-- when _Felicity_  stormed out this morning, Oliver. I can see that you have feelings for her.”

Oliver can only managed a choked hum in response.

“I have no doubt you did exactly what you wanted today, Oliver,” his mother continues. “You’ve always had a kind heart, Oliver, and you’ve always leapt without looking when it comes to women.” Her implication is clear -- Moira Queen is perfectly willing to believe Oliver thinks himself in love with Felicity, but she cannot get past her conclusion that Felicity is gunning for the Queen family name and fortune.

And he is just not in the mood to deal with her disapproval tonight. His voice is quiet but firm when he answers, “She’s not what you think she is. I can’t -- I thought you would appreciate her brains and her accomplishments. She’s amazing, if you give her a chance.” He hears Felicity’s familiar surprised inhale behind him.

Turning quickly, he sees her standing a few feet outside the bathroom, watching him with wide eyes. She’s still wearing her gorgeous red dress and Thea’s diamond necklace, but she’s barefoot. Something about the image, about the domesticity of seeing her this way -- it tugs at his gut. He flashes her a small but genuine smile.

“Sorry,” Felicity mouths, gesturing broadly at the bathroom, like they’re playing charades. “I’ll go back in there.”

“Oliver?” his mother asks, sounding slightly irritated now.

He ignores her, taking a step towards Felicity, holding his hand out, asking without words for her to wait. “Mom,” he says, not breaking Felicity’s curious, nervous gaze. “We’ll talk tomorrow when Felicity and I are back in Starling. Good night.” He hangs up without waiting for his mother’s response, a petty bit of payback for her persistent discounting of Felicity. “Hey,” he greets the woman before him -- his _wife_ , he reminds himself, slightly dazed, again, by the idea.

“Hey,” she answers. They’re standing twenty feet apart, and he can _feel_  the connection between them; the _awareness_. She shifts her weight nervously. “Uh, I want to show you something, because Thea... Well... I don’t _think_  she would ask, because that would be kind of--” She stops, waving a hand around to signify... _something_ , but Oliver can’t figure out what, because his attention is caught by the wedding band on her finger. “But she might,” Felicity continues, “and then it would be kind of obvious that we didn’t--” She presses her lips together with the tiniest shake of her head. “Um, I mean, I just think that in order to keep our story believable, you should… know… this thing.”

Oliver’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches her, completely lost at what she could be referring to. “Felicity?” He takes a couple steps towards her, tossing his phone onto the desktop and then shoving his hands in his pants pocket. “What’s going on?”

“Your sister,” she says, drifting towards him. “She was... _really_  excited about this. The-- the wedding, I mean. She was great!” Felicity adds quickly and almost apologetically. “Enthusiastic and really just a lifesaver with the makeup and the-- Anyway. She got a little, uh, insistent about the _something old, something new_  thing. You know the saying?” Her hands twist together nervously, and Oliver’s attention catches again on the platinum band on her finger.

“Yeah,” he answers gruffly. “That necklace -- it looks beautiful on you.”

“Thank you.” She ducks her chin for a moment, even as she reaches for the jewelry, her fingertips drifting along the stones. “This covers old and borrowed.” She gives him a strange little shrug. “But Thea was really concerned about blue so we -- we improvised.” Her hands drop and press against her thighs.

“Felicity?” Her name comes out strangely breathless, and he clears his throat.

“Red,” she begins, her fingers pinching the skirt of her dress to hold it out a bit, apparently to reinforce her point about the color. Though Oliver needs no reminder -- he’d picked it himself. She lets the fabric go. “Red doesn’t really go with blue. So...” She pauses again, and Oliver’s anxiety spikes.

She’s not wearing blue anywhere he can see, and Oliver realizes with a bolt of irrepressible lust that she’s going to show him something _under_ her dress. Holy fuck. He tries to say her name, to stop her, but he is suddenly and stunningly speechless.

“So,” Felicity continues, her voice a little shaky, “Thea had some ribbons. Which are new. And one was blue. So she...” She glances down, grasping a bigger handful of her skirt with her left hand. “She didn’t have a garter, so we kind of... we improvised.”

Oliver’s hands tense into fists in his pockets; he feels like dry kindling, simply awaiting a spark.

Carefully, Felicity shifts her body, canting her left side towards him and sliding her skirt up, exposing more and more of her toned thigh. Oliver’s mouth goes dry watching, and she just keeps easing her skirt up, until she lets out a huffed little sound of relief.

Just below the hem of her hiked up skirt, dangerously high on her thigh, is a slim, navy blue ribbon tied loosely around her leg. Oliver stares at it, at the contrast of the dark, silky ribbon, and her thigh. He wonders how it’s staying put -- when she shifts, he can see a line of ribbon disappearing under her dress. She must have tied it to her panties.

Oliver feels like he may have swallowed his tongue.

Felicity’s showing him because if this were real, he would’ve discovered that little makeshift garter when he undressed her. He would’ve discovered it when he slid his palms up her thighs, beneath her skirt; he would’ve gone exploring, then tugged on that delicate fabric with his teeth until it released; and he would’ve saved it forever, a private memento of the first time he made love to his wife.

If it’d been real.

But it’s not.

She’s standing ten feet away with her dress hiked most of the way up her thigh as part of their cover story. Because of his fucking _tactic_.

He lifts his regretful gaze to hers, and after a long, tense moment, her expression goes flat and she releases her hold on the dress. Crossing her arms over her chest, she says quietly, “I need something to wear.”

Oliver chokes on the realization that she doesn’t have anything with her but this red dress and the grey sheath she’d worn all day. He’s not faring much better -- he’d only brought this suit and the clothes he’d been wearing earlier. He weighs the options for her comfort quickly, and then starts unbuttoning the crisp white dress shirt he’d worn to marry her.

Felicity’s eyes go wide. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs out of it, absently tugging his undershirt back into place, and holds the dress shirt out for her. “You can wear this.”

She hesitates for a long moment, then moves cautiously towards him. When she takes the soft cotton from him, she murmurs, “Thank you,” and then retreats to the bathroom.

Oliver lets his breath out with a whoosh and drops down to sit on the mattress, ignoring the rose petals as they flutter into the air and resettle all around him.

How the fuck is he supposed to do this?

& & &

Felicity stands in the giant, fancy bathroom, surrounded by what is surely some fancy kind of Italian marble, and stares at herself in the mirror. Not only does she feel out of place in this palatial suite -- _honeymoon_  suite -- but her face is flushed and her hands are shaking and she’s just basically a big pile of nerves.

Because the look Oliver gave her as he stared at her thighs and then stripped out of his shirt to hand it to her had been pretty unmistakably lust-soaked. And she doesn’t know what to _do_  with the sudden confirmation that Oliver has, in fact, noticed that she’s a woman. And apparently finds her attractive.

Well, probably not _her specifically_.

“It’s just his very healthy sex drive,” she tells her reflection. Because Oliver seems to have a keen appreciation for _all_  women. It’s not about _her_. Which is why it’s fine that they’re apparently going to share a bed tonight.

No problem at all.

She’ll be fine sleeping three feet away from the incredibly beautiful man that she’s kind of maybe in love with. The man she just _married_.

“Right.” She gives herself a brisk nod. “Stop spiraling.”

But it’s hard when her mind is whirling. It’s been an incredibly long day. Her body feels lethargic and overtired, but her brain is busily flitting from one topic to another: Oliver’s reaction to her, her mother’s accusations and disappointment over her wedding, the fact that she’d _married Oliver_ , the deluge of rude articles she’ll have to wade through tomorrow, and -- oh, yeah -- her slight obsession with reliving every perfect moment of that kiss.

Oh, God. That _kiss_.

“Don’t think about it,” she tells her reflection sternly.

Turning on the faucet, she leans over the sink and splashes cool water on her face, hoping to jolt herself into focusing, or at least cool the telltale flush in her cheeks. She needs to get out of her dress and then spend the next few hours resolutely working on her laptop to figure out how to beat her own virus. _That’s_  what’s important right now.

Felicity doesn’t have her toothbrush or makeup wipes or lotion with her, so she tears open the hotel-provided bottles and packages. She wrestles her carefully styled hair into a mostly successful ponytail before washing her face and brushing her teeth. Then she stands in front of the mirror for a good few minutes, fumbling with the clasp of the heavy, gorgeous diamond necklace, but she cannot figure out the clasp.

Thea had clasped the stunning piece around her neck with a wobbly smile and a sincere, whispered, “I’m glad you’re marrying my brother,” that only made Felicity feel awful for the lies. Because she likes Thea, and in that moment, she had so desperately wanted this new connection with Thea to be genuine and truthful.

Felicity had learned as a girl to entertain herself, to sustain herself. She’s not a _lonely_  person; not really. But she can’t deny that there are broken places inside of her that long for a family. She and her mother have a difficult relationship, despite mostly only having each other. Felicity’s grandparents passed away before her father left, so she can barely remember having a family larger than two. But the way Thea had reacted on the plane, the way she’d tugged Felicity into the dressing room beside the chapel and spent nearly two hours on makeup and hair and then stubbornly creating the fake ribbon garter because, “You need to have all four of the things, Felicity!” -- that was the first time Felicity’s ever really understood what having a sister might feel like.

And it was all based on a lie. Thea will _hate_  Felicity when she finds out.

With a frustrated little growl, Felicity leaves the stubborn necklace alone and turns her attention to the dress, twisting and contorting until she gets a grasp on the small zipper tab between her shoulderblades. It takes a few tries, but then the zipper gives, loosening the dress until it falls away from her chest, catching briefly on her hips before pooling at her feet.

Carefully, she steps out of it and hangs it by the spaghetti straps on the back of the bathroom door. She turns to the mirror, smiling a little at the ridiculous picture she makes -- simple ponytail, no makeup, adhesive bra, purple panties, a makeshift ribbon garter, and a _ten million dollar diamond necklace_  sparkling at her throat. “One of these things is not like the other,” she sings to herself.

Then she steps closer to the counter, her attention drawn to Oliver’s crisp white shirt. She examines it warily -- it’s finely made, and a thicker material than she expected. She carefully peels the bra cups off, and then slips her arms into the shirt, shivering in the sudden chill. Oliver’s shirt is comically large on her, the hemline hitting her mid-thigh. When she drops her chin to button it up, she catches a whiff of his cologne, and it does _things_  to her.

It makes her think about things she should not be thinking about.

Like things a husband and wife should be doing on their wedding night.

God, the things she wants this man to do to her.

“Get a grip, Felicity,” she orders herself, fanning herself, the overly long sleeves flapping around her hands.

After buttoning Oliver’s shirt to a respectable degree, she steps back and eyes her reflection critically as she rolls up the sleeves. The neckline gapes open to rather nicely frame the diamonds she hasn’t been able to get off, and every time she moves, a flash of her bright purple underwear is visible. Oh, and her nipples stand out proudly against the material, which she decides to attribute to the chill of the air-conditioned room and not at all to the vivid image of _things she wants to do to Oliver_.

Who is on the other side of the door.

Near the giant bed they’re going to share.

Because that’s fine.

“Oh, God,” she groans. “This is awful.” She takes three slow, calming breaths, then reaches for the door.

Crossing her arms awkwardly over her breasts, she steps out into the room, her gaze finding Oliver sitting on the bed in his undershirt and dress pants, surrounded by white rose petals. The room is fairly dim, with just one overhead light on near the door, and a lamp glowing softly on the far side of the bed, leaving him mostly in shadows. Her breath stutters a bit when he looks up and meets her gaze.

“Could you--” She stops and takes another breath. What is wrong with her stupid lungs? Why won’t they _work_  properly? “I can’t get the necklace off -- could you--?” She flails a hand toward her throat when she runs out of words.

“Of course,” he interrupts, already pushing to his feet and crossing to her. He tilts his head towards the bathroom. “There’s better light in there.”

“Yeah,” she manages, her gaze immediately falling on the bra cups she’d thoughtlessly left on the bathroom counter. “Oh,” she nearly yelps. “Sorry!”

“Felicity,” he says, with the suggestion of a laugh. “It’s fine.” His big hands land on her shoulders, and he presses gently. “Could you turn a bit?”

She does, tipping her head forward and pulling her ponytail over her right shoulder. This is the biggest bathroom she’s ever been in in her entire life, but right now, she is so utterly, _painfully_  aware of Oliver that it feels like he’s taking up all available space. She can feel the heat of his body at her back, the gentle tug on the neckline of his shirt to pull it back, and then the soft, careful touch of his fingers against the sensitive skin of her neck as he works the clasp. She sneaks a glance at him, at _them_  in the mirror, and she _wants_  this with a fierce, impossible ache in her chest.

“Got it,” he murmurs, and she feels the release of tension, and then he’s carefully shifting his hands forward, holding the separate ends of the necklace.

Felicity reaches up and takes hold of the necklace, barely noticing the way it catches on the edge of his shirt, because she made the mistake of meeting his unreadable gaze in the mirror. “Thanks,” she whispers, then steps away, gently laying the diamonds on the countertop. Then she stiffens and whirls to face him. “Wait! We can’t leave this here.” She points an accusatory finger at the sparkling gems. “What if they slip down the drain?”

Oliver huffs a laugh, but she moves quickly to the sink and eyes the drain suspiciously. It’s _probably_  not big enough, but is it really worth the risk? _Ten. Million. Dollars_ -worth of diamonds!

“Felicity,” Oliver says. “They’re fine there.”

She turns back to him, hands on her hips, because -- “Are you serious? You want to just _leave_  them there unprotected? What if I have to pee in the middle of the night and I don’t turn the lights on because obviously I don’t want to wake you up because you need the rest, and then I accidentally knock them onto the floor?”

He’s smiling outright now. “Then they’ll spend the rest of the night on the floor, perfectly unharmed. Because they’re _diamonds_.”

“Oh.” Felicity frowns, considering his point. Diamonds _are_  basically indestructible. “Still, maybe we should wrap them in a towel. Just… in case.” She shakes her head. “No! Because then what if we _forget_  them because they’re out of sight, and then the towel gets tossed into some industrial washing machine with _priceless gems_  in it?” Her eyes are wide with horror -- _why_  did Thea think she should be responsible for such an expensive item?

Oliver touches her arm, and when her gaze snaps up to his, he’s smiling at her. Fondly. And then he very lightly squeezes her bicep. “I’ll wrap them up and put them in my garment bag, okay?”

“Yes.” She lets out a relieved breath, and nods for good measure. “Excellent plan.” She stands there for one awkward moment, then snatches her bra cups from the counter and turns, moving quickly towards the relative safety of the main room. “I’m going to go work.”

She grabs her messenger bag and stuffs the bra cups into it. She circles to the far side of the large bed, pausing only to sweep an armful of rose petals onto the ground and toss several throw pillows after them. Plugging in the long-abandoned laptop, she puts it on the night table to boot up, and then tugs the comforter and sheets down enough to slide into bed. She props herself up against two pillows and the headrest, tugging the comforter basically up to her armpits before creating a laptop desk out of throw pillows, and settling in to work in a warm cocoon.

She hauls the big bulky laptop over and fusses with its placement, logging in and sighing happily when the screen displays a picture she’d taken during her sophomore year from the Mass Ave bridge of the Boston skyline at sunset. It’s bittersweet, as all her memories of college are now -- tainted by Cooper’s death.

“Focus,” she tells herself. Because she can’t do anything to change what happened to Cooper, but she _can_  attack the situation at QC. Despite everything that happened over the past few days, despite the confused frenzy in her brain and her heart, as soon as Felicity creates a copy of her algorithm on a segmented disk to do digital battle with, she falls right into the code.

This is her peace, her happy place, her soothing language of logic. She takes her time, relearning what she created and trying to remember each and every decision, each and every if/then statement. She will only be able to beat this thing when she knows it inside and out the way she did when she wrote it originally.

She is so locked in that she barely notices Oliver moving around the room, speaking quietly on the room phone, or beginning a light workout in the open space beyond the foot of the bed.

Felicity is going to beat this stupid virus, and she’s going to do it right now.

& & &

It’s a little after eleven when room service arrives with the late dinner he’d ordered. Oliver finishes a set of pushups and levers himself up. He glances at Felicity on his way to answer the door, unsurprised to find her engrossed in coding. Felicity has barely glanced his way despite the fact that he’s been running through light calisthenics for a while, hoping to burn off some of the sexual energy that he absolutely _cannot_  channel the way he wants to.

Grinning at her laser focus, he heads to the door, grabbing his wallet from the bureau as he goes. The porter rolls in a carefully draped trolley, with two meals under silver, one share dessert, and a bottle of champagne in a crystal ice bucket. Oliver lifts a questioning eyebrow, and the porter says, “On the house. Congratulations, Mr. Queen.”

Oliver considers how best to handle the situation -- the volume of inquiries and articles on his wedding to Felicity suggest that even this porter will be able to sell his story for a decent return. That is, if there’s anything interesting to report, like, say, indications of an utter lack of honeymoon-appropriate behavior.

Oliver keeps his voice low enough not to interrupt Felicity, whose current feverish work on the laptop he _sincerely_  hopes remains out of sight of the porter, and says, “Thanks. If you can make sure we’re not disturbed the rest of the night?” He includes just enough suggestiveness in his tone to imply he and his bride will be enthusiastically busy, and hands the porter a $100 bill.

The porter nods, not quite able to hide his smile. “Yes, sir. Of course,” he says, and takes his leave. Oliver bolts the door behind him, double-checking the security, before wheeling the cart farther into the room.

Felicity is still oblivious to the food, her fingers flying over the keyboard, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, eyes trained on the screen. He moves quietly, setting one tray on the bed and then checking the food he’d special ordered. The kitchen staff got them Big Belly, and then artfully plated the burger and fries, leaving no trace of the grease-stained cardboard Felicity’s favorite meal typically arrives in. There are even parsley sprigs added to the presentation as garnish.

Bemused, he puts the plate and a bottle of water on a small tray and slides it onto the bed near Felicity’s legs. She doesn’t notice, murmuring something about firewalls and nodes that he has no chance of understanding. Smiling to himself, Oliver turns back to the cart and prepares his own meal -- nearly identical to Felicity’s, but with sweet potato fries instead -- placing a second tray on the bed near hers.

When Oliver uncorks the champagne, it’s the loud pop that finally jolts Felicity back to the here and now. She yelps, one hand pressing tight to her chest as she looks at him with wide, startled eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “Dinner’s here, and the hotel sent us a bottle of champagne.”

“Oh,” she says, blinking several times the way she does when she’s fighting her way out of the complicated code that lives in her head. “Oh! Food. How late is it?”

“It’s almost 11:15,” he answers.

Felicity drops her gaze to the tray near her hip. “Is that--?”

“A Big Belly buster, no pickles, no onions, extra ketchup, with a side of fries,” he confirms.

Her lips form a perfect “O” for a moment as she digests that. “You made the hotel go get us Big Belly?” she asks, and he can hear the surprise in her tone.

“Yeah,” he confirms with a shrug, like it was no big deal, like he didn’t just pay $200 for a meal that costs less than $20, because he thought she’d appreciate it. Something about the warmth and understanding on her face as she watches him makes him wonder whether she can see right through him. He busies himself pouring champagne. “Here,” he says, offering her a full flute.

“I shouldn’t,” she answers, even as she accepts the flute and examines its pale, bubbly contents.

Oliver pours himself a glass, then pauses to sweep a truly ridiculous number of throw pillows off of his side of the bed, before sitting on the comforter and turning partially toward Felicity. She’s so, so beautiful in the warm, dim light, watching him curiously. For a moment, he is frozen, unsure of what to say, of how to get them past the strange awkwardness of this situation.

Because this isn’t them -- he and Felicity aren’t overdone romantic hotel rooms or meals under silver or even this warm kind of domesticity. They’re late nights in the lair, and arguments about coffee, and careful, measured touches. They’re Big Belly burger with Diggle, and soft jokes over the comms, and the kind of partnership he’d never thought he’d find.

And then he smiles without really meaning to, leaning forward to tap his glass against hers. “Partners,” he says, because that’s what they are to each other. Before anything else, no matter what they may become to each other, they will always be partners.

Felicity smiles shyly back at him, echoing, “Partners” in a soft voice. Then she tips the flute to her lips and takes a sip. “Mmmm,” she hums. “This is good champagne.”

He ruthlessly ignores the ache in his chest as he watches her take another, larger sip and swallow it down with a tiny smile, luxuriating in the simple pleasure. He takes a sip himself, barely tasting the cool liquid. “You should eat,” he urges. Because it’s been a long day, and the snack on the plane was not nearly enough for dinner -- and he’s not even sure whether she ate anything at all.

“Yes,” Felicity agrees, tugging the tray towards her. She eats three fries quickly, her attention split between the laptop and her food. He can read the tension in the way her forehead crinkles, and the set of her shoulders. He knows she wants to solve the problem with her supervirus, but he also knows she has a tendency to push herself past productivity. He recognizes that particular form of stubbornness, because he does the same except for the times that she’s able to reel him back in.

Maybe this time, he can be the one making sure she doesn’t overdo it. Maybe he can keep her safe in a different way than he normally tries to.

“Hey,” Oliver says quietly. When she looks over, he tilts his head towards the laptop. “How’s the project going?”

Her mouth twists in frustration. “The thing is, I’m really smart,” she announces with an annoyed sigh.

Oliver pauses with the burger near his lips to laugh. “I’m aware,” he tells her fondly.

Her cheeks flush just a little, and she shrugs. “I mean, I did a great job writing this stupid thing,” she says, frustration in her tone. “If I was just a _little_  less of a genius, I’d be able to crack it easily. But this is, like, _me versus me_.” She wrinkles her nose. “You know?”

He nudges her tray of food closer to her. “Eat,” he says, in a way that makes it more of a plea than an order. She still gives him a stubborn look before breaking down and taking a big bite of the burger. He feels her moan of appreciation low in his gut, but hides his reaction by digging into his own meal.

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments, eating their meals, and it’s the first time since this whirlwind started that Oliver feels like they might make it through everything unscathed. Like maybe his tactic to protect her legally might not ruin the strength of the bond between them.

When Felicity is nearly done, she leans back, tugging the comforter lower so she can rub her belly. “Oh, my God, so full,” she moans. “Impending food coma.”

Oliver very carefully averts his gaze. “Would it help jar anything loose if you told me about the virus, or about options to defeat it?”

She tips her head, lips pursed in an incredibly appealing way as she considers. “Maybe,” she answers slowly. And then she straightens up and sets the laptop and throw pillow it’s perched on beside her. Unburdened, Felicity turns to face him more fully, until she’s sitting there in his goddamn shirt with the sheets and comforter pooling around her hips.

The sight is breathtakingly sexy.

“Okay,” he manages, taking a fortifying sip of his champagne before he places it on the nightstand. He shifts to imitate her pose, sitting cross-legged on the bed and facing her directly. “Tell me.”

She does. For at least twenty minutes, Felicity talks through the problem. And her mind is so fast, so nimble, that she doesn’t recite it like a chronological story; instead, she catalogues the decisions she’d made while creating the virus, and lists possible ways to attack what she’d so painstakingly created. Oliver doesn’t follow much of it, honestly, but he pays careful attention, asking questions when she seems to falter, falling into her thoughts.

And then something clicks for her -- he’s not even sure what, but he would recognize that triumphant look on her face even _without_  the first pump.

“Oliver!” she exclaims, grinning ear to ear. “I could _kiss_  you right now!”

And just like that, all the familiar easiness between them crystallizes into that awkward _awareness_. Because she could kiss him. And considering how much restraint it’d taken to _stop_  kissing her earlier, when they’d been in a roomful of people, Oliver cannot imagine having the strength to push her away in this room. In this _bed_.

He flattens his palms against the mattress, pressing down, searching for _something_  to focus on other than the sudden flush on her cheeks and this unbearable tension between them.

“Not,” she begins, eyes wide. “Not _kiss_ you, obviously. That’s not -- I mean, we _have_  actually-- but that was-- _special circumstances_. Or, no, _tactics_ , actually, and I wouldn’t--”

“Felicity,” he interrupts, because she _has_ to stop talking about kissing him. He gestures at the laptop. “Don’t you have--”

“Yes! I will absolutely do that and not--” She stops abruptly, lunging for the laptop to dive back into her work, high color on her cheeks.

Oliver sighs and levers himself out of bed, needing the distance to keep all of the promises he’s made to himself about her. He cleans up the remnants of their meal quickly, pleased to see she’d basically eaten everything. He pushes the cart out into the hallway and relocks the door, retreating to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

When he can no longer postpone it, he rejoins Felicity in the main room. She’s back in the coding groove, barely noticing him as he peels back the sheets and settles into bed beside her. There’s at least two feet of space between their bodies, but Oliver feels her closeness like the most exquisite form of torture. He is on edge, requiring entirely too much of his self-control to keep himself from turning to her, from reaching for her.

He can’t. He won’t.

Letting his eyes drift shut, Oliver searches for that restful place between sleeping and waking that allows him to stay alert enough to respond to threats in circumstances where sleeping could be deadly. He takes comfort from the sound of Felicity’s fingers on the keyboard; it’s the sound of late nights in the lair, of time with the people who know him the best.

A sudden silence registers, and Oliver opens his eyes to find Felicity’s chin on her chest, eyes closed, fingers lax on the keyboard. He pushes himself upright, tracing his knuckles along her bicep, but she doesn’t react. “Felicity?” he whispers.

“No doughnuts,” she mutters, shifting awkwardly. “‘Ts compiling. Jus’ few minutes sleep.”

“Okay,” he answers, rolling over and onto his feet to circle the bed to her side. He eases the laptop from beneath her hands, his gaze catching on her bright purple nail polish. Setting the computer on her nightstand, he turns back to Felicity. “Can you move?” he murmurs.

She makes an irritable grumbling noise that is unfairly cute, so he takes a breath and moves closer, sliding an arm beneath the sheets until his fingers find the bare skin of her legs. He slips one arm under her knees and the other arm around her shoulders and lifts her just enough to shift her down to lie flat on the mattress. She doesn’t really wake up, just huffs irritably and curls toward the center of the bed, rolling onto her side.

Oliver pulls the sheet up, then the comforter, tucking them around her shoulders with excessive care. Switching off the bedside lamp, he gives himself a moment to adjust to the darkness. He skirts the bed and returns to his side, pausing to step out of his slacks before lowering himself to the mattress. He settles on his back, tense and finely attuned to her every movement. He clasps his hands over his abdomen and focuses on relaxing his muscles.

Felicity, he learns quickly, is not a peaceful sleeper. She shifts and sighs and rolls, edging closer and closer to him until, inevitably, her hand lands against his bicep. She hums and wiggles a bit, her hand curving around his muscle until her warm palm rests on his arm and he can feel her fingertips against his ribcage.

He chest burns with contrasting emotions -- peace and comfort and want and self-control.

Oliver stares at the ceiling and tries to breath through it.

& & &

Felicity never thought much about what it would be like waking up in bed with Oliver.

Pushing him backwards onto a mattress to climb on top of him? Sure. Tugging his big body down on top of her in bed? Absolutely. Waking up with him _afterwards_? No.

So it’s a bit of a shock, to put it mildly, when a sharp knock startles her awake and she finds herself sprawled in a huge, incredibly comfortable bed on her stomach, with her head turned toward the windows and a large, warm palm cupping her ass.

Her only-covered-by-what-now-seem-like-particularly- _skimpy_ -panties ass.

She stays stock still, eyes wide open and staring at her laptop on the bedside table. There’s bright morning sunlight streaming around the edges of the drapes, and she is stuck trying to figure out whether she is actually awake, because Oliver’s hand is quite certainly on her ass. His fingers flex very slightly just before he finally moves.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and lifts his hand from her as the mattress shifts with his movements.

Cautiously, Felicity rolls over just in time to catch Oliver’s boxer-brief clad ass disappear as he goes to answer the door. While Oliver talks in low tones with whomever it is, she checks the time, more than a little surprised to see it’s nearly 8:30.

She remembers thinking she’d never be able to fall asleep in a bed with Oliver, and she remembers their surprisingly helpful conversation about her algorithm, and she remembers that he persuaded the hotel to get her Big Belly for their very late dinner, because on occasion his thoughtfulness is overwhelming.

She also remembers working after dinner, and then… nothing until she woke up with Oliver’s hand on her ass.

So.

Okay.

Best not to dig into what other anatomic over-familiarity could have (or maybe did?) happen while she slept.

The door clicks shut, and Felicity pushes upright, tugging the puffy duvet closer as a really ineffective shield against embarrassment or maybe Oliver’s general handsomeness.

When he walks back into view, he’s frowning at a big black box in his hands, and it’s really not her fault that her gaze zeros in on the box and then -- drops a bit further.

Goodlord, those dark grey boxer briefs certainly leave little to the imagination. She most definitely does _not_  remember him stripping out of his pants last night. She is pretty sure she would have lost all hold on her senses if she’d known _all of that_ was in bed with her.

Cheeks burning, Felicity drops her face into her hands, scrubbing her palms over her face in an attempt to wake herself and also maybe avoid the impossible awkwardness for a blessed few seconds.

“Uh,” Oliver clears his throat, and she feels the mattress dip slightly. “Thea sent us a gift.”

Felicity jerks her head up to stare at him in something like terror. “Oh, no.”

“No, no,” he assures her, standing beside the bed with the box open on the mattress in front of him. But he’s staring at the box’s contents with the strangest look on his face. “It’s -- She sent us fresh clothes.”

Felicity blinks. “Okay?” It’s supposed to be a statement, not a question, but it is early and she is uncaffeinated and _what_  is making his brow do that confused furrow-y thing?

Reluctantly, Oliver stares down at the box a moment longer, then finally reaches in with a sigh and pulls out -- oh, God -- a carefully folded white sundress, with a white bra and white panties sitting on top. Which would be embarrassing enough to see in Oliver’s hands. And then she sees the piece de resistance -- the panties are arranged so the word “BRIDE” scrawled across the ass in hot pink script is on proud display.

She’s pretty sure the sounds she makes in reaction can most accurately be described as a mortified squeak.

Cautiously, as if he’s holding a volatile bomb and not women’s clothing, Oliver sets the bundle down toward the middle of the bed. Felicity continues to stare at the metaphorically _loud_ “BRIDE” in horror as Oliver rummages through the rest of the box’s contents. “Your sister is evil,” she decides.

He gives a slightly tortured laugh and says, “If it makes you feel better...”

Puzzled, she looks up to find Oliver holding up black boxers with the word “GROOM” printed on the ass in bold white font.

And Felicity loses it. She flops backwards onto the pillows, bringing her hands up to her face to block some of the laughter. Because Oliver fake-playboy, secretly-grumpy-vigilante Queen is flying home from Reno with a new wife and boxers that say “GROOM” on the ass. Every time she glances at the sour look on Oliver’s face, she just laughs harder.

Finally, he shakes his head and huffs a laugh and lets the branded boxers drop back into the box. “Thea definitely has a quirky sense of humor,” he says when Felicity finally manages to (mostly) stop laughing. And then her breath catches, because Oliver is still standing there beside the bed they’d shared, rumpled and scruffier than normal, wearing only an undershirt and very clingy boxer-briefs. He’s utterly beautiful, and she turns her face into the pillow for a moment to compose herself. “Do you want to shower first?” he asks. “Or should I?”

“I volunteer as tribute!” she chirps, rolling to her feet before turning back to grab the gifted clothes. She confirms the utterly befuddled look on Oliver’s face and heads for the bathroom. “The Hunger Games,” she tells him. “You’d like it -- she’s an archer, too.”

He grumbles something incomprehensible in return, and Felicity smiles to herself as she retreats to the bathroom.

Once Felicity pulls the door closed behind herself, she showers and gets ready for the day relatively quickly. She rolls her eyes as she pulls on the ridiculous “BRIDE” panties. “I will get you for this, Thea Queen,” she mutters. Everything fits surprisingly well -- the sundress is made up of a layer of simple lace over plain white cotton, with a low v-neck and a generous skirt. The effect is somehow casual _and_  bridal enough to feel appropriate for their inevitably paparazzi’d return to the Queen mansion.

She’s tempted to leave her hair down, but doesn’t have product and flat irons with her, so she resorts to a simple ponytail. She doesn’t have any eye makeup, but puts her glasses on with a happy sigh before choosing the brightest pink in her emergency lipstick arsenal. After a critical once over, she decides it’s as good as it’s going to get without access to Thea’s duffel bag full of beauty products, and stuffs yesterday’s panties and Oliver’s wrinkled dress shirt into her messenger bag.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she finds a big, steaming cappuccino waiting for her, alongside strawberries and pancakes and a plate that suggests Oliver has already inhaled an omelette. “Eat up,” Oliver says before disappearing into the bathroom for his own shower.

Felicity drags her breakfast over to the small table near the window and checks on the progress from last night’s coding session. It failed to compile properly. “Frak,” she mutters to herself, abandoning her coffee in service of fixing what _has_  to be a bug in her code. “Must’ve been more tired than I thought.” She scans through quickly, but nothing obvious jumps out.

Before she can begin a line by line review of her work, Oliver reemerges in yesterday’s slacks and a navy henley she’s never seen him in before that does just incredible things for his stupid, handsome face. He’s holding her red dress in one hand, and she freezes, watching him matter-of-factly pack her clothes in with his for the trip home.

It makes her lungs feel tight and weird, and she scoops up a large piece of pancake to keep herself from speaking. Oliver zips up the garment bag and turns to her, pausing to rescue her abandoned heels from last night, and then carries them to her. He drops into the seat across the small table from her and gives her a small smile. “Thea and Dig will meet us in the lobby whenever you’re ready.”

She nods and turns her attention back to the food, quickly finishing most of the pancakes and then scooping the extra whip cream up and polishing that off. Oliver rolls his eyes, but she simply shrugs and downs more of her cappuccino. “My breakthrough last night broke,” she says, then frowns. “Or didn’t break? Didn’t _work_ , at any rate. I need to go back through what I wrote in detail, but I can do that on the plane.”

“With my sister?” Oliver asks, sounding amused.

“Oh.” Felicity sighs, shutting down the computer for now. “Right.” It’s frustrating, because she knows she’s on the right track, even if she was too tired last night to stay up and finish. She can _feel_  the problematic code untangling itself in her brain, but she needs some quality time with her laptop to get it right. “Okay,” she says, slipping on her silver heels and tucking the laptop into her slightly overstuffed messenger bag. “I’m ready.”

Oliver takes the bag from her, looping it across his body and pausing by the closet to grab the garment bag, too. He pulls open the hotel room door for her, and Felicity freezes on the threshold.

“Wait!” She whirls to face him and, wow, they are standing much closer to each other than she expected and she blinks, momentarily forgetting the cause of her alarm.

“Felicity,” he says, the barest hint of a smile on his lips, “did you forget something?”

“Necklace!” she blurts. “Did you--?”

“It’s in my bag,” he reassures her. “I’ve got it.”

Absently, she pats his chest in relief. “Oh, good. Great. Then we should…”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice a bit lower and gravelly-er than usual.

The elevator ride is quiet and a bit awkward, and she’s already blushing just from what she _knows_  Thea thinks they did all last night. When the chime announces they’ve reached the lobby, Felicity takes a deep breath. Just as the doors slide open, Oliver takes her hand in his and gives her a comforting little squeeze.

Okay. So they… just… sometimes they hold hands now. In public. For show. That’s fine, she decides, stepping out into the lobby with determination. She spots Thea quickly, lounging in an overstuffed chair near the dark paneled walls with Diggle hovering nearby, and alters their path to join them.

“Good, finally,” Thea announces, glancing over at Dig, who’s standing patiently with Thea’s duffel and his own small go bag at his feet. Oliver’s sister pushes herself upright and smirks. “I hope you enjoyed your gifts.”

Despite her instant blush, Felicity opens her mouth to respond when a familiar voice interrupts.

“Felicity Megan Smoak!”

Felicity freezes in mute horror, barely registering the way Oliver and Dig shift to protect her from a perceived threat.

Except -- it’s not that kind of threat.

It’s _so much worse_.

Wide-eyed, Felicity steps sideways to see around Oliver’s giant shoulder. “Mom?”

“Mom?” Oliver echoes so quietly Felicity barely notices.

Because all she can see is Donna Smoak standing ten feet away in a tight, sequin-adorned purple dress and six inch platform heels, her hair in perfect blonde waves as she crosses her arms and glares at her daughter. “Are you going to introduce me to my brand new son-in law?”

END CHAPTER SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta say, Thea elbowing her way into this story has really been a lot of fun. And now we have another lovely, determined woman who showed up uninvited. ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lengthy wait between chapters. My only defense is that _Unbearable Hotness of Being_ invaded my brainspace for a while, and I wrote my OFBB, _The Constellations Never Fail_ (coming soon!). But I have not forgotten or dropped this story, and thank you for bearing with me. :)

Despite the sequined spitfire advancing on him with a strangely familiar glint of steel in her gaze, Oliver holds his ground. 

He’s faced down mass murderers with less trepidation, but even though he’s heard very little about the woman steaming towards him, he can tell in the first ten seconds in her presence that many of Felicity’s best qualities were instilled by her mother. And Felicity’s best qualities are also some of her her scariest -- her unwavering loyalty to the people she loves and her utter fearlessness have cut Oliver to the quick more times than he cares to acknowledge.

And right now, as Felicity’s mother stalks toward him he realizes that she is as effortlessly brave as her daughter, and her loyalty is 100% with Felicity -- which almost certainly makes him the bad guy.

Which is not entirely untrue, all things considered. 

The elder Smoak stops six inches from him, tipping her head back to examine him with a sharp, suspicious gaze. 

“Mom,” Felicity asks from just behind him, “what are you _doing_ here?”

Felicity’s mother doesn’t take her eyes off of Oliver, though. Instead, she sticks out her hand and says, “Donna Smoak, your new mother-in law.”

Oliver swallows hard. “Oliver Queen,” he says, taking her small hand and quirking an eyebrow when Donna squeezes. Hard. And curls her fingertips just enough to let the hard edges of her nails bite into his skin. Oliver reaches for that _important social situations smile_ , the one Felicity hates, the one that’s gotten him out of scarier scrapes than this, and says, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Donna Smoak tilts her head sideways, an echo of the skeptical look he’s gotten from her daughter a hundred times. “Is it?” 

“Absolutely,” Oliver manages. Her grip on his hand tightens. “We wish you could’ve been here last night. Felicity looked luminous.”

Felicity elbows him and steps right up to her mother, clearly trying to break the standoff. “Mom. Mom. _Mom_.” When Donna finally releases Oliver’s hand and turns to her daughter, Felicity’s tense frame stiffens further. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, honey, I thought I should take this opportunity to welcome a man I’ve never even _met_ into the family,” Donna answers, her tone sweet as syrup, “since you married him without me in attendance.” Her tone is angry, but Oliver doesn’t miss the tears in Donna’s eyes when she adds, “I should’ve been the one to walk you down the aisle.”

Felicity flinches, and Oliver feels a pit of dread in his stomach, because Donna Smoak is clearly made of the same stern stuff as her daughter, with that same soft, kind heart underneath. “I told you,” Felicity manages, “we’re planning another ceremony later, where _everyone_ is invited. Of _course_ you’ll be there, and you can walk me--” She breaks off, pressing her lips together, then takes a big, steadying breath. “This was just for,” she pauses, her nose wrinkling, “ _reasons_.”

Donna glances down at Felicity’s torso, then lifts an eyebrow. “Reasons?” she echoes.

“ _No_ , Mom,” Felicity snaps. “I told you I’m not pregnant. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Oliver shifts, draping his arm around Felicity’s shoulders and drawing her close. He can feel Thea’s curious gaze, and knows this is going to get worse before it gets better. Because he and Felicity have to sell it to his exuberantly supportive sister and her openly skeptical mother at the same time. And somehow this has become more complicated than he’d considered it could, and he hasn’t even faced police interrogation yet.

But Oliver can only focus on so many things at once, so he rubs his thumb along Felicity’s upper arm, offering her whatever support he can. She’s anxious and twitchy, like she’s not entirely sure how to handle this either, and Oliver needs her to know that he’s got her back. “Ms. Smoak,” Oliver says, “I can assure you, only the timing of this,” he pauses minutely, hating that he thought of the word _tactic_ before the word _marriage_ , hating the way Felicity stiffens against him, “ _decision_ is the only thing affected by outside forces. Your daughter and I--”

Donna scoffs, interrupting him with a wave of her hand. “I’m not holding a shotgun, Mr. Queen, so please explain to me what _outside forces_ required a shotgun wedding?” She narrows her eyes. “My baby girl is the best thing that could ever happen to you, and I don’t even care about all of your money or your family’s _prestige_. I want to know why she didn’t deserve her day in the sun.”

“Mom,” Felicity chokes out, “that’s _not_ what--”

“She is smart,” Donna blazes on, “and beautiful, and she has the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever met, and whoever she chooses to share her life with should be standing on a _rooftop_ to tell the world how _lucky_ he is!”

“You’re right, and I--” Oliver tries, but Felicity jumps into action.

“Mom, come with me,” she says, hooking her arm through Donna’s and ushering her away, over to a corner of the hotel lobby. It’s for the best, as there are enough strangers in the lobby to make Oliver worry about cellphone video and TMZ. Still, he feels a strange ache as he watches Felicity and her mother argue over this _tactic_. Their similarities are a bit stunning as Oliver watches them face off, beautiful, stubborn blondes in bright colors.

“So,” Thea drawls from beside him, “that went well.”

“Thea,” he warns.

“Oh, come on, Ollie, did you really think mom or Felicity’s mother would be okay with the fact that they weren’t even invited to _your wedding_?”

“I talked to mom last night,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate on how badly the conversation went, but from the sympathetic look on his sister’s face, he doesn’t need to. Oliver loves his mother, he does, but her excessive need to manage everything is so difficult to handle -- especially when it comes to his personal choices. He is still angry that his mother’s first instinct upon learning he’d married Felicity was to make sure the Queen family fortune was protected.

“Did I hear Felicity say you’re planning a public ceremony?” Thea asks, excitement in her tone. 

“We’re not having a _public_ wedding,” Oliver grits out.

“You know what I mean, Ollie,” she chides. “A larger ceremony with an actual reception.”

The idea makes Oliver want to punch something. There’s no way he can handle another wedding, a wedding where everyone’s eyes will be on him, waiting for him to screw up, -- waiting for him to run, to get wasted, or to make out with a bridesmaid on the dance floor. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“The press is going nuts,” she points out, waggling the phone in her hand. “They only have one picture from the unexpected wedding of the year. I bought the recording from that kid, by the way,” she adds, waving off his attempts at gratitude. “You can defuse some of the furor if you have a reception _soon_ and let the press cover it.”

“We’re _not_ letting the press cover anything,” he grumbles. “I don’t want the press hounding Felicity.”

Thea snorts. “Then you shouldn’t have married her.” Off of Oliver’s dark look, Thea pokes him in the arm and says, “You’re prime tabloid material, Ollie, and you have been since you and Tommy started stumbling drunk out of clubs at sixteen. You can’t seriously believe the press wouldn’t be _all over_ the woman who snagged the notoriously fickle Ollie Queen.” 

Her tone of voice makes clear her unfavorable opinion of his past behavior, and it surprises Oliver how much that knowledge hurts. Not that he disagrees with her assessment -- he was an ass -- but he’s always cherished Thea’s good opinion of him. “Yeah,” he mutters.

Thea’s expression softens. “Hey, people love a good redemption story, and Felicity Smoak is the crazy smart, really hot, but totally unknown woman who just married Oliver Queen. Out of nowhere, the former playboy king of Starling is married, and everyone wants to understand _why_.”

“Because she’s amazing.” The answer is so obvious to him.

Thea beams at him. “Just say that to a camera with those heart eyes in full force, and America will fall in love with her, too.”

“Thea, that’s not...” He understands Thea’s point, and she may be right. But there’s something deeply objectionable to him about parading Felicity in front of the press like a prize. 

Oliver sighs, still trying to gauge how Felicity’s conversation with her mother is going, his tension softening some as he watches her. They are both wild talkers, gesturing with their hands and punctuating their points with body language, and the warmth in his chest is so deep and unshakable as he watches Felicity that he wonders how it took him so long to figure out that he loves her?

How could he have missed something that is now so obvious?

Diggle appears at Oliver’s other side and claps a hand on his shoulder. Oliver glances over, but Diggle is positively smirking at the arguing blondes. “Wanna know what I think?” Dig asks.

“Absolutely not,” Oliver answers. He doesn’t want to hear his friend’s opinions on the matter, but he knows his protest won’t be enough to keep Diggle silent.

Except that just then, Felicity catches her mother’s hands, holding them steady as she speaks urgently. Oliver wants desperately to help, but he has no insight at all into Donna Smoak, and figures Felicity would not appreciate him butting into the conversation at this point. She hasn’t looked his way once since dragging her mother away -- she clearly doesn’t need him.

Oliver has no idea what happens -- one moment, Felicity’s got that little crinkle between her brow while her mother frowns, and the next Donna throws her hands in the air and hops up and down, squealing. 

“Wow,” Diggle says.

“Oh, I definitely like her mom, too,” Thea adds.

Oliver stays silent, watching the two blondes. Felicity steps forward, and her impromptu hug is the only thing that stops her mother from her exuberant celebration. After a long moment, Donna steps back, grinning, and reaches up to wipe the tears from her face. Happy tears, Oliver thinks, but he can’t be sure.

Abruptly, Donna turns and heads right for him again, only this time, she’s fixed him with a bright smile. Thea and Diggle each step back, abandoning him to his sequined fate. Oliver’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t know what to do. And then Donna’s invading his personal space, throwing her small but surprisingly strong arms around his rib cage. “My new son!” she says. “I didn’t realize.”

Oliver brings one tentative arm up, embracing Felicity’s mother gingerly even as he looks to Felicity for assistance. She moves closer, watching them with an expression on her face that leaves Oliver puzzled. 

Donna pulls back and lifts her hands, placing them on his shoulders. “Any man who protects my Felicity is all right with me.” She squeezes his shoulders, then glances over at Felicity. “Wow, he’s very firm. Congratulations, baby.”

Felicity’s face flushes. “Mom!”

But Donna has already turned back to Oliver. “Good news! I’m coming back to Starling with you!” she announces. Oliver can’t come up with a response, but it doesn’t matter -- Donna glances at Thea and Diggle in turn, a blinding smile in place, and asks, “And who might you two, be?”

“John Diggle,” Diggle says with a grin. “Friend of the happy couple. So nice to meet you -- you raised one hell of a daughter.”

At that, Donna steps forward, giving Diggle a hug he doesn’t seem to have expected. “I didn’t realize my daughter had such _handsome_ friends,” she says, releasing a somewhat startled Dig and running a hand through her long blonde hair before turning an expectant smile to Thea.

Thea elbows Oliver. “This big lug is my brother,” she tells Donna. “I’m Thea.”

“Oh, Thea!” Donna hugs her, too, and doesn’t let go. Instead, she rocks Thea back and forth. “It is so nice to meet you! Felicity said you and I could plan them a reception!”

Oliver whips his head around, asking Felicity wordlessly. She winces and edges closer. “Next weekend,” she confirms quietly, her eyes still mostly on her mother and Thea excitedly exchanging flower ideas. 

“What?” Oliver objects. “Felicity--”

“Hey,” she argues, “it was that or at least another hour of angry Donna Smoak. Would you prefer that?”

“No,” Oliver concedes, because the last thing he wants is to sow discord between Felicity and her mother. “It’s just that--”

“We have a lot to do,” Felicity interrupts quietly. “And we need my mother and your sister occupied with something else so we can do it.” Her cheeks flush and she closes her eyes briefly. “Not _do it_ \--”

“I know,” he interrupts, because she is beautiful and he wants her to be his, and he’s quickly learning he has only so much self-control when it comes to her, so she needs to stop making him think about a world in which his hands would be welcome on her body. “It’s fine. We’ll just-- We’ll get through it.”

The way Felicity hesitates before agreeing is worrisome, but Dig ushers them towards the door before Oliver can pursue things further.

& & &

The flight back to Starling passes in something of a panicky blur for Felicity.

Her mother is with them on the jet. Her _mother_.

It’s…

She is half-convinced that everything since Oliver’s strange announcement that they were engaged has been some extended dream sequence. Or nightmare? No, not nightmare. Just… really bizarre dream with some amazing things (one day she will stop obsessing over Oliver Queen’s incredible kissing skills, but today is not that day) and some really terrifying things (most obviously, the threat of jail time and the fact that her _mother_ and Thea Queen are planning a blowout wedding reception in a few short days).

And Felicity just simply cannot, so she retreats to her computer. Her mother and Thea think she’s just trying to relieve some stress about the overwhelming press coverage -- there’d been at _least_ forty paparazzi outside their hotel, and a dozen more climbing the chain link fence at the commuter airport -- but Diggle and Oliver know she’s working on their actual problem. The problem that all of this _insanity_ is trying to solve. She’d been so sure she was on the right track last night, so she starts with her coding, going over it line by line. 

The fact that losing herself in coding soothes her anxiety is just an added bonus.

By the time she’s jolted back to the present when the plane touches down in Starling, she’s got an updated, error-free version of her code compiling. When she looks up, flushed and happy, she finds Oliver watching her with a strange, grim set to his face. 

Felicity blinks, crestfallen even without knowing _why_. “What happened?”

Thea answers before Oliver can. “Our mom released a statement on your wedding.”

Felicity’s stomach drops, and her gaze flies to Oliver, who gives her a grimace that she’s _pretty_ sure is supposed to be a smile. Oh, frak. “Oh,” Felicity manages. “That’s…”

Thea shrugs, but she doesn’t look upset, which leaves Felicity even more confused and anxious. “Do you want the good news first or the bad news?” Thea asks.

Reaching across the aisle, Oliver takes her hand in his and squeezes. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it,” he promises, but the fact that there’s something to _take care of_ involving Moira Queen’s public statement is its own very special kind of terrifying.

“ _What’s_ fine?” Felicity demands, looking back and forth between the Queen siblings. “What am I missing?”

Oddly, it’s her mother who answers. “There’s a press conference in forty-five minutes,” Donna explains, half-turned in her seat to face Felicity more fully. She scans Felicity’s face and gives her an encouraging pat on the knee. “We’ll put some blush on you in the car. More eyeliner. Maybe a bright pink lip.”

Felicity is lost. “Press conference?” she echoes blankly. “Did something happen with QC?”

“The press conference,” Thea explains, and Felicity does _not_ like the amused quirk of her temporary sister-in-law’s eyebrows, “is to introduce you to the world as Felicity Queen.”

Felicity chokes on absolutely nothing. “What?” she wheezes. _Felicity Queen_? “No,” she squeaks. “I’m keeping--”

“Felicity _Smoak_ -Queen,” Thea interrupts, waving off her objections. “Whatever. Mom called a press conference to deal with the absolute frenzy your wedding caused. But here’s the good news.” She pauses, holding her phone closer and scrolling a bit to find what she’s looking for. “ _The happiness of your children is the most important thing to any parent, and with that in mind I am so pleased to welcome my son’s new wife into our family. Felicity Smoak, a distinguished graduate of MIT, has been an invaluable asset to the family company, and a stalwart supporter of my son since his return from his ordeal._ ”

Felicity gives her head a little shake, like maybe there’s water in her ears and she’s mishearing things? “I don’t understand. She said _what_ now? I’m an asset? And a support? Like I’m some kind of _buttress_ or _joist_ or some other architectural words I don’t know?” She’s spiraling a little, her temporary calm slipping away.

Oliver’s grip on her hand tightens, just as the plane taxis to a stop. He glances back at Diggle, then at Thea and Donna. “Can you give us a minute?”

Felicity is still muttering to herself about _I’m a human being not a fraking building block_ when the pilots emerge and disarm the door, letting the others off the plane. Oliver says something to them, too, and suddenly, she’s standing in this gazillion dollar Queen family jet alone with Oliver, whose head nearly brushes the ceiling as he steps closer. And he’s _still_ holding her hand in his, which is a dangerous habit by virtue of how very much she likes it.

His touch calms her, which is going to be a problem when this farce is over and he _stops_ touching her. But that is a problem for another day.

“I’m a _supporter_ of you?” she splutters, indignant. “I mean, I _am_ , obviously, but in the context of our friendship and our, you know, working partnership. When she says it like _that_ , it sounds very _Stand By Your Man_ , which,” Felicity continues, working herself up, “is quite a surprise coming from Moira Queen. Whatever her faults, and there are probably kind of a lot of them, she’s definitely got her own _very_ calculating mind, so why she would reduce me to _behind every good man there’s a_ \--”

“ _Felicity_ ,” Oliver interrupts. She snaps her jaw shut, and he gives an exasperated sigh. “She’s publicly backing you, and us, and in the context of the QC attack, that’s a very good thing.”

Felicity purses her lips, thinking through the logic of his argument. “Oh.” She tips her head, examining Oliver’s face to figure out how he feels about this. “Oh,” she says again, quieter this time. “You’re right. I mean, I don’t like her phrasing, but any public support at all is definitely a surprise, so we should...” She pauses, remembering with crystal clarity Moira’s disapproval over breakfast just a little over 24 hours ago. She certainly hasn’t forgotten how much the dismissal stung, but Oliver is watching her with a muted sort of hope in his eyes, so she takes a breath and says, “We should use this to our advantage.” She frowns. “Somehow.”

Because she hasn’t put the pieces into any logical, strategic order. How does Moira Queen’s public support help identify the person attacking QC? How does her support counteract Isabel and her endgame?

“So you’re okay with the press conference?” Oliver asks. Felicity stiffens, because, holy frak, she totally forgot about that part. Before she can protest, Oliver presses on, “Thea and my mom are right about the press coverage. They’re not going to stop until they get _something_. You saw the vultures outside our hotel. This way, we let them take pictures in a controlled environment.”

“Pictures?” Felicity whines. Because the _last_ thing she needs is an unflattering picture of her mid-blink or, worse, _mid-sneeze_ while standing next Mr. Armani Print Ad Picture Perfect Face Guy. “Are you talking posed pictures, like you and me stand there and smile awkwardly into the light of a thousand flashbulbs? Because I have never done that, but it looks incredibly _un_ -fun.”

Oliver actually huffs a laugh. “I won’t lie and says it’s _fun_ ,” he answers slowly. “More of a necessary evil. But we control credentialed press in a press conference setting at QC more than some paparazzi trying to scale the fence at the Queen mansion.”

Felicity’s eyes go wide, imagining a slimy jerk in black slithering up the stone walls of the mansion, taking pictures of them sleeping in separate beds. “Do they _do_ that?”

Oliver’s gaze hardens. “Let them try.”

“Oliver,” she admonishes.

But he leans closer, resolve clear in his expression. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Felicity.” He tilts just a little farther, almost close enough to kiss her. “Okay?”

She nods, holding her breath. His gaze is so intense and she _knows_ he’s not going to actually kiss her, but it would be _so easy_ to close this miniscule distance and-- 

When he steps back and offers his hand, she lets out a half-relieved, half-disappointed sigh. Then she places her hand in his and lets him lead her off the plane.

& & &

The timing of the press conference is such that Oliver barely has a moment to greet his mother before she is advancing to the lectern to kick things off. He does _not_ get a chance to introduce her to Donna Smoak, or present Felicity -- his _wife_ \-- to force his mother’s congratulations, which would’ve given Oliver a gauge on his mother’s mood.

Instead, Moira Queen marks their arrival with a quick “Excellent timing,” squeezes Thea’s hand, and steps out onto the dais wearing her impenetrable expression of calm competence and an impeccable ruby suit.

The press have been herded out onto a small portico off the main lobby of the QC building, and the podium staged with the impressive glass-sided building at its back to provide grandeur to the scene while avoiding any actual QC logos. This is about the Queen family, after all, and not the company they own -- even though Oliver knows perfectly well that Moira Queen would not hold a press conference to publicly support his impromptu marriage without the threat to QC looming in the distance. So it’s not about the company, but it’s about the company. From his perspective off to the side and still within the lobby, Oliver can see the normal “Queen Consolidated” sign for the front of the lectern has been stashed into the small space meant for notes or other reference materials.

Oliver stands closest to the door, where he can see his mother, but remains out of sight of the gathered press pool. Felicity is at his elbow, while Thea, Donna, and Diggle wait behind him. Normally, the entire Queen family would’ve walked out together, creating a picturesque backdrop behind Moira in her perfectly tailored suit, but Nazish, QC’s spitfire of a PR flack, is shooting for maximum splash. So they wait, and Oliver tries to ignore the buzz of tension gathering beneath his skin as he listens to his mother’s short introductory speech.

It’s nothing surprising, really -- some references to the shipwreck, the island, and Oliver’s adaptation back to world. He knows it’s calculated to generate sympathy -- to remind the press of all the Queen family has lost and soften them up in the hopes it’ll lead to better, kinder coverage. Still, it irks him to be presented as a damaged man. 

He _is_ , but the ways in which those five years in hell broke and remade him are _his_ to fix. His damage is no one else’s business.

“Oliver,” Felicity murmurs from beside him. When he glances over, she’s watching him with soft, careful eyes. Before he can answer, she slips a hand into his and squeezes. “You’re tensing up,” she adds quietly, leaning into him a bit -- her slight weight against him is surprisingly soothing. “You’re supposed to look happy.”

Just like that, the wave of tension rising in him breaks on a bemused exhale. “Don’t you mean I’m supposed to _be_ happy?”

Her expression shifts, and for a moment, she looks unfathomably sad. “I wish you were,” Felicity answers quietly, the simple honesty of her words leaving him momentarily pole-axed. “That’s all I want for you, Oliver.”

His chest aches, his throat tightens, and he wants badly to kiss her, to hug her, to thank her for the comfort she offers so selflessly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Queen?” Nazish prompts, stepping aside so their path from the lobby out onto the dais is clear. “It’s time.”

“Oh, frak,” Felicity whispers beside him. Oliver swallows hard and puts all of his unrest out of his mind. It’s her association with him that’s brought them here, about to step into the keen eye of the national press, and he can _feel_ how nervous she is. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” he tells her. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

Squeezing her hand, Oliver steps up onto the podium and then pauses, making sure she makes it up the two steps in her very high heels. In the sunshine, she’s luminous -- so much so that it momentarily blinds him to everything else around them. 

Donna and Thea had freshened her makeup in the car, until Felicity batted them away and chose her own lipstick -- a bright, happy pink. Watching her apply it carefully -- lipliner, then brushing the color on with a steady hand and an expert attention to detail -- had left him rather fixated on her mouth for the few minutes that followed. 

Looking at her now, in the bright white sundress chosen by Thea, with those familiar glasses in place and her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, he is impressed all over again by her stubborn bravery. Because she’s moderately terrified, her fingers clenched around his, but she’s right beside him anyway -- chin up, determined smile in place as she stands by his side.

Admiration and something warmer and much more intense bloom in his chest as he looks at her.

When she gives him an expectant look, Oliver realizes he hasn’t moved -- he’s standing there near the edge of the dais just gazing down at her. He doesn’t let himself think about it, doesn’t let himself second guess or rationalize, doesn’t bother to justify it with the word _tactic_. He simply does exactly what he wants in this moment -- he leans down and kisses her bright pink lips softly, gently. Lingering for a moment, he barely notices the sound of a hundred camera shutters clicking. 

He straightens up. Felicity’s eyes are wide, but she smiles shyly up at him and says, “Okay.” 

When the rest of the world breaks through their moment, Oliver turns, lifting his free hand in a half-wave to the assembled members of the press and then escorts Felicity to the podium. His mother gives him a graceful hug and a kiss on the cheek, then steps in front of him to embrace Felicity, whose pink lips form a perfect “O” of surprise before she brings her free hand up to pat Moira’s back. 

Oliver realizes his mother didn’t actually _say_ anything to Felicity, but she’s already stepping back, and then he’s got his wife at his right and his mother to his left and a crowd of reporters shouts questions at them. Without bothering to step to the microphone, Oliver holds up his hand for silence.

“Thank you,” he says once the crowd quiets. “As you know, Felicity and I married yesterday. I realize that our marriage has come as a surprise to many people. My wife,” he says, his voice nearly breaking on the word, “and I are very happy, and looking forward to enjoying our newlywed status for quite a bit longer.” He grins, reaching for that Queen charisma. “I understand there’s a lot of curiosity about us, and about Felicity, which is why we agreed to release the information you’ve been provided with today, and stop by to answer a couple questions.”

He pauses, glancing at Felicity, an eyebrow quirked to ask if she’s ready. She’s still clutching his hand tightly, but gives him a quick nod. Then she turns to the crowd, lifts her free hand in a little wave, and offers a quiet. “Hi.”

“Are you pregnant?” shouts a voice from the back.

“Hey,” Oliver snaps, but Felicity squeezes his hand and he bites back his anger, deferring to her.

She’s flushed with embarrassment and at least a little bit of fury. Her voice is louder than before and definitely more exasperated when she says, “Unless you’re my gynecologist or my husband, it’s really none of your business.” 

There’s a moment of appreciative laughter from some of the reporters, and Oliver feels a swell of irrepressible affection for her that nearly makes him miss the next question.

“Who designed your wedding dress?” another reporter asks.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Oliver picked it.” She looks up at him, brow furrowed in consternation. “Do you remember?”

“I don’t remember the tag, just how beautiful you looked in it.” He takes a moment to enjoy the flustered look on her face before turning back to the press. “I love her in red, and I’m definitely not a traditionalist,” he adds, hoping to derail the fashion discussion. He knows just enough about how this works -- admitting to off-the-rack will just get the fashion blogs targeting her. 

“How did you meet?” a voice asks.

Finally, a softball. Oliver lets his honest nostalgia for that first exchange color his tone when he answers, “I thought I’d killed a laptop with a spilled latte, but Felicity brought it back to life. After that, I just kept finding excuses to talk to her and we became friends.” He glances over at her and they grin stupidly at each other for a moment.

“Felicity, did you sign a prenup?” someone yells.

Her smile fades, and Oliver has to bite down his fury at the insinuation directed at her. His tone is less polite and a lot sterner when he says, “Don’t mistake this announcement as an invitation into our personal lives.” He glances at his mother, deciding they’ve done enough. “Felicity and I will not be available for interviews, and we’d thank you to respect our privacy.”

It’s a warning, even though he knows it’s fruitless. The paparazzi and a good portion of the legitimate press will still be all over them for at least the next few days looking for a story, for a scandal, or for an interesting picture. Oliver ignores the additional questions being shouted from the press. 

Beside him, Felicity has her chin tilted up despite the color in her cheeks, and he has the sudden urge to find the guy who shouted the prenup question and punch him square in the face. He leans close to Felicity and says, “Let’s go.” She nods and he’s about to usher her from the stage when he hears a loud question about the QC hack. Felicity goes rigid beside him, and before Oliver can answer, his mother steps back to the podium.

“The attack on QC is still under investigation,” she says. “The entire Queen family, including Felicity, is cooperating fully with the police and the FBI in order to bring the party or parties responsible to justice.”

A voice shouts out, “Isn’t your daughter-in-law a suspect?”

Felicity’s hand spasms in his, but Oliver makes sure to keep his expression mostly neutral. The cameras and a good amount of the attention are still on him and Felicity, even as his mother answers, “There are a lot of rumors flying around about the attack on QC, and we really can’t comment while it’s under investigation. However, I want to make it clear that Felicity was brought in to document the security measures in place. You’ll recall that Felicity is a cyber security expert and a valued QC employee with incredible insight into these types of attacks.” Her expression hardens. “I expect your coverage of my daughter-in-law to reflect her expertise.”

Felicity is holding Oliver’s hand so tightly now that he can feel the curve of each fingernail pressing into his skin. He understands her discomfort, but honestly he is feeling tremendous relief. His mother’s statement, her orchestration of this press conference, and now her direct defense of Felicity is much more than he’d expected after the way they left things last night. 

“I think that’s enough,” Oliver says, lifting a hand to wave to the assembled press before following Felicity off the stage. 

She walks back into the QC lobby, out of sight of the press, and straight into her mother’s arms. “Oh,” Donna says, looking startled even as she wraps her daughter up and sways back and forth comfortingly. “Baby girl, you did so good.”

Felicity groans something unintelligible even to Oliver, who’s only a foot away from her. Then she straightens, stubborn as ever, and turns back to Oliver with a crinkle on her forehead. “Please tell me I didn’t talk to the press about my gynecologist,” she says, an adorable whine in her voice.

Oliver huffs a laugh, tucking his arm around her shoulders and pulling her in. “You did. It was perfect.”

& & &

Felicity leans her forehead against Oliver’s collarbone, taking a moment to get over her residual embarrassment and nerves. It occurs to her that they’re probably taking this _faking physical intimacy_ thing too far, considering that some day very soon she’ll have no excuse to touch him and will have to go back to the super-subtle longing looks. But for right now, she is actually comforted by his familiar piney scent, so she tells her common sense to just let her have this one moment. 

She takes another deep, calming breath and opens her eyes, nearly stumbling backwards when she sees Moira Queen’s intimidatingly self-possessed face so close. Oliver runs his hand up and down her bicep in small soothing motions. “Uh,” Felicity says to Oliver’s-- to her _mother-in-law_ , “hi.”

“You did well,” Moira says, her keen gaze on Felicity. She pauses, her head tilting just slightly. “May I call you Felicity?”

Felicity can _feel_ a hundred variations on _You can call me Mrs. Queen, Mrs. Queen!_ balancing on the tip of her tongue and focuses every last bit of her willpower on _not saying a word_. 

Oliver’s arm tightens around her and he answers, “Of course you should call my wife by her name.” And, yeah, every time he calls her that, her heart does the _most_ annoying little fluttering thing. Then Oliver turns to an admittedly confused Donna Smoak, standing there with her flawless cat-eye eyeliner, her tumble of golden curls, and her Vegas-appropriate tight sequined dress. “Donna,” he says, every inch the well-bred gentleman of manners, “may I introduce you to my mother, Moira Queen. Mom, this is Donna Smoak, my mother-in-law.”

Felicity makes a tiny choking noise at Oliver’s words. She ignores the puzzled look from Thea and an eloquent eye roll from Diggle. Because she is captivated by the topsy-turvy, surrealist moment when these two strikingly different women shake hands, offering each other greetings even as they size each other up.

“So nice to meet you!” Donna practically chirps. “You’ve got quite a handsome son there, Moira. And your daughter!” Donna clasps Moira’s trapped hand between both of hers and sighs. “What a spitfire that girl is!”

“Thank you,” Moira answers, smoothly extracting her hand from Donna’s grip. “And your daughter is--” There’s the _slightest_ of pauses, during which Felicity’s stomach twists and tumbles with dread-- “a lovely young woman.”

Felicity wheezes out a relieved kind of half-laugh. 

Then Donna leans closer to Moira and says, “I bet you were as unhappy as me when you found out these two tied the knot without bothering to invite their own _mothers_ , huh?”

Moira offers a tight smile. “I was more than a little surprised,” she answers. “I understand Thea has already started planning something for the weekend?”

“Yes!” Donna throws up her hands in excitement. “We were talking about it on the plane. Picture this: high tops scattered all around the room with those tall centerpieces. You know, the ones that practically hit the ceiling? But not boring old flowers, something with more pizzazz -- like white and pink feathers!”

Felicity has never fully appreciated Moira Queen’s poker face before this moment; despite the keen horror Felicity _knows_ the other woman is feeling at this suggestion, Moira merely tips her head slightly and lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a thought,” she says, her tone noncommittal.

Before Felicity can decide whether this meeting of the minds is going to be a surprising success or a colossal failure, there’s some sort of commotion at the other end of the spacious QC lobby. Unsurprisingly, Diggle and Oliver immediately usher the assorted Queen and Smoak women towards the parking garage elevators.

The murmur of interested strangers grows louder, and Felicity gets a hand on each of John and Oliver’s stupidly large biceps to balance herself on tiptoe so she can _see_. It’s-- “Oh, frak,” she says, her blood turning to ice.

A phalanx of a dozen or so uniformed police are striding directly towards her, led by two FBI agents straight out of central casting. The two agents wear perfect dark suits with visible guns at their hips, and perfectly bland expressions. 

Felicity’s mind races. If she’s about to be arrested, she needs to figure out if she’ll be able to teach Oliver how to deploy her new code when he _visits her in jail_ , or whether all of the work she’s done so far is for nothing. Because the virus and her new code that she _hopes_ can best it is on the laptop, and the laptop is air gapped, which means the code needs to be recreated from scratch on another computer, and Oliver certainly can’t do that. 

_No one_ can if Felicity ends up in the big house, because they can’t possibly trust such a dangerous algorithm to anyone with the hacking skills to understand it.

The realization is crushing -- she can only fix the problem at QC from out here in the world. If she gets hauled off to jail right now, she’ll be useless.

She’ll be without electronics. Oh, frak, she’ll be _without electronics_? 

Felicity steps back almost involuntarily, fighting the irrational urge to run. Wordlessly, Oliver reaches for her hand, and she clings to him. Quentin Lance is one of the cops accompanying the agents, and she tries to read his face for any kind of clue, but even when he meets her gaze, he gives nothing away. 

“Yup,” she mutters when the impressive coterie come to a stop before them, “I’m being dragged out of here in handcuffs.” She remembers that several dozen reporters are already on the premises and groans, “And it’s gonna be on CNN.”

Oliver pulls her into his side. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the threat, but he keeps his voice low and calm for her sake. “No matter what happens, don’t say a word, Felicity. I’ll have Jean there immediately. We’ll post bail -- whatever we need to do, okay?”

She’s shaking, and her knees feel a little unsteady, and she’s seriously regretting these high heels. And this sundress. And her _bride underwear_. “Oh, they’re gonna hate me in the clink,” she mutters.

Dig chokes on what probably would’ve been a laugh in better circumstances, his hand landing on her back in solidarity. “We’ve got you,” he reminds her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Baby?” Donna’s voice is concerned, but Felicity doesn’t have time to explain. She simply glances over her shoulder to give her mother what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

Then she takes a deep breath and turns back to face her fate with steel in her spine, and absolutely _no_ crying of any kind -- at least not in public. She’s ready. She’s a grown woman, and she’s brave, and she will keep her chin up.

And then the stiffer-looking of the two FBI agents steps forward, eyes on Oliver, and says, “Oliver Queen? I’m Special Agent Vasquez. We’d like you to come with us and answer some questions.”

Felicity blinks. “What?”

Because they’re here to arrest her. _Obviously_. She shakes her head a bit.

Oliver sounds completely unaffected when he answers, but his grip on Felicity’s hand is tellingly tight. “What’s this about?”

“The attack on QC. Surely you’re aware that your assistant--” Agent Vasquez gestures vaguely towards Felicity, and Oliver takes a half step forward in reaction-- “has some interesting ties to the issue.” Agent Vasquez steps to the side, pointing back the way he came. “Now if you’ll come with me.”

“Is this a request, or are you taking me into custody?” Oliver asks coolly. 

“Right now, it’s a request,” Agent Vasquez answers with a smug smile. “But it’s one you should strongly consider complying with.”

Oliver turns, locking gazes with Diggle for a moment before looking down at Felicity. “Call Jean?” he asks.

Felicity nods. “Of course. Don’t say anything until Bhavin arrives!” She reaches up with her free hand, smoothing his clothes a bit, but mostly just touching him before he leaves. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“No,” Oliver says. “Diggle’s going to take you home--”

“No way!” Felicity interrupts, irritating flooding her. “You sat in that waiting room for how long while they questioned me?”

Oliver clenches his jaw for a moment. “You have more important things to be doing,” he says, and he’s _right_ , in a way, because she _needs_ to get her code done and ready before someone really _does_ arrest her. 

So she wrinkles her nose in irritation, but she gives him a grudging nod. “Fine.”

Some of the tension in his frame eases, and he says, “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” When he leans in, Felicity doesn’t even think about it, she simply tilts her chin up and kisses him, like this is something they do every day. Oliver straightens up and steps back, holding her hand for a moment longer, then he turns to the waiting FBI agents. “Let’s go.”

Felicity doesn’t really realize she’s doing it, but she drifts closer to the front of the lobby, keeping her gaze on Oliver’s familiar frame as long as possible. He’s walking at a good clip, uniforms swarming around him, herding him out the door and towards a dark unmarked sedan parked illegally at the curb.

There’s a small crowd of curious QC employees in the lobby watching Felicity, and an even larger crowd outside, no doubt attracted by the line of cop cars parked in front of the building. As Oliver is ushered to the car flanked by a squadron of officers, a dozen flashbulbs go off, and the passersby move and shift, jockeying for a better view. 

That’s when Felicity sees a familiar figure across the street, watching the commotion near the back of a group of pedestrians. It’s his same brown hair, a little longer and floppier, and his same wiry frame.

She freezes, her palm pressed flat against the thick, bulletproof glass, mouth dropping open in shock. Because it can’t be. There’s no way. It’s _impossible_.

As she’s staring, squinting, leaning into the glass to get a better look, the crowd around him shifts and then -- he’s gone.

“What?” she whispers, buffeted by an onslaught of memories -- regrets, anger, happiness. Frantically, she studies the pedestrians on sidewalk across the street, her gaze jumping from person to person, looking for any sign of him.

A familiar hand lands on her shoulder, and Dig says, “Felicity?”

“Yeah?” she manages, her voice a pale imitation of itself.

“Hey,” Dig says, moving around to her side, pressing her shoulder a bit until she looks up with wide, scared eyes and meets his concerned gaze. “What’s wrong?”

But she shakes her head. Because she’s clearly losing her mind. “Nothing.”

Diggle doesn’t even have to say a word; he simply raises one skeptical, demanding eyebrow.

Felicity swallows hard, gesturing out at the crowd that’s starting to disperse now that the squad cars have whisked Oliver away. “I just-- I know it’s crazy, but for a second, I really thought--” She shakes her head. “John, I could’ve _sworn_ I saw Cooper.”

& & &


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Brief but somewhat vivid discussion of suicide in the third scene.

 

As hour three of his interrogation begins in this dingy holding cell at the SCPD headquarters, Oliver’s reserves of patience are beginning to run dry.

He’s not a terribly patient man regardless, and in this situation, his fuse is incredibly short and pre-lit. Because it’s Felicity’s liberty at stake here. He _will not_  be responsible for any adverse consequences for her, which means he needs to be on his game for this interrogation. He needs to stay calm, recognize the patterns and connections the two FBI agents are trying to draw, and stay at least two steps ahead of them, strategically speaking.

Under pressure, Oliver is an excellent _tactical_  thinker, but he sometimes loses sight of the larger strategic implications.

He absolutely _cannot_ do that here; he needs to read the room, anticipate the questions, and take control of the situation. Because Oliver knows interrogations intimately. He’s _been_ an interrogator -- and a violent one at that. He learned coercive, torturous techniques from Waller, and refined his talents with the Bratva. He’s also been on the wrong end of brutal interrogations -- his body and mind bear the scars of some of the vicious methods that can be used to get information. The vivid memory of being tied up and tortured leaves his body flooded with adrenaline, sets his instincts on fire with the need to _go_ , _leave_ , _escape_.

Logically, Oliver knows that the FBI does not torture average American citizens -- particularly not when they’re on American soil. But logic has nothing to do with what he perceives as a looming threat. Because he recognizes the eager glint in their eyes, the ferocity of their intentions. His memories connect that mindset to imminent torture, so his body is tensed and ready.

When he’s reactive like this, it’s even harder to focus on the overall goal -- even when it’s Felicity.

Right now, the only thing allowing him to keep his instinctive reaction under control is the presence of his lawyer and Quentin Lance, and the fact that the red light on the camera mounted near the door has been on the entire time.

Violent interrogations are not carried out with an audience -- live or recorded. So while he would like to solve this problem the way he knows best -- action; violence; exerting his will -- for as long as that little red light stays on, he’ll repress his visceral need to put down the implicit threat.

He will sit in this uncomfortable chair, rein in his temper, suppress his urges to flee, and answer a series of repetitive and frustrating questions. For Felicity.

Because Oliver is not currently -- so far as he can tell -- a suspect. They’re treating him as a potential witness for the prosecution, and a potential source of new leads to allow them to nail Felicity for the QC hack.

None of that will ever happen, which means it’s been two plus hours of carefully vetted, precisely phrased answers, and a lot of looking to Bhavin, his young but determined attorney, for guidance.

Despite his initial anxiety, Bhavin has risen to the task. He’s taking quick notes in a language that Oliver doesn’t recognize, all the while never taking his eyes off of the FBI agents. Bhavin hasn’t missed an opportunity to redirect the questioning or frustrate the questioners.

Between Bhavin’s interjections and Oliver’s careful, unrevealing answers, the two FBI agents are slowly revealing their hands -- and their weaknesses.

Special Agent Vasquez is smart and likes to show that off with needling verbal jabs, while his partner, Special Agent Rollins, plays the affable _good cop_. For some reason, the agents have let Lance stay in the room the entire time to observe the interview. Oliver knows Lance is protective of Felicity, but when his gaze shifts to Lance, the other man stares back at him with a stony expression. No help there for Oliver, clearly.

Vasquez taps his fingertips on the table. “Can you account for your whereabouts Tuesday morning?”

Oliver holds the other man’s gaze. “You’ve asked me a variation on this question twice already,” he speaks louder when Vasquez begins to interrupt, “where was I on Tuesday morning, and can anyone confirm my whereabouts Tuesday morning. I was, as I’ve said twice, in my office at QC. I’ll be happy to have my schedule pulled and provided to you.”

“We appreciate that,” Rollins says with a nod and what is probably supposed to be a disarming smile, but Oliver is unaffected by the trust-building attempts.

Vasquez and Rollins exchange a quick look, and then Vasquez rises from his seat, wandering over to the far wall and leaning back against it, arms crossed. He’s affecting a casual sort of disinterest, but his sharp brown eyes are still trained on Oliver.

Bhavin asks, “About how much longer do you think this will take? Mr. Queen is a very busy man, and his new bride is waiting for him at home.”

Despite the precariousness of the situation, a little thrill goes through Oliver at the mention of his marriage to Felicity. Not that it’s anything more than an effective cover, a _tactic_ , but the simple fact that she married him at all still leaves him breathless.

Lance mutters something too low and garbled for Oliver to hear. Oliver says, “I thought you said she deserved better than a secret relationship. Shouldn’t you be pleased we’ve made it official?”

“Yeah,” Lance barks, glaring at Oliver with open animosity at this point. “I’m pleased as punch.”

“If I could redirect,” Rollins interjects. “What can you tell me about your wife’s prior relationships.”

Oliver stills, his focus sharpening further. It’s taken two and a half hours, but they’re finally getting to the topic he’s most interested in -- what, exactly, the FBI knows of Cooper Seldon. Before he answers Rollins’ question, Oliver glances at Bhavin, who gives an approving nod. “I know some,” Oliver says. “The broad outlines.”

Vasquez snorts and echoes, “The broad outlines?”

“Asked and answered,” Bhavin objects, his tone sharp.

Rollins sits back, crossing his legs and watching Oliver with something that’s supposed to look like unthreatening curiosity. “Are you familiar with a man named Cooper Seldon?”

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Oliver answers immediately.

“But you’ve heard the name before,” Rollins presses.

It’s not a question, but Oliver answers anyway, because evasiveness at this crucial point of the interview will seem to be an attempt to cover up something. “I have heard it, yes.”

Vasquez is far less patient than his partner. “From who?” he demands.

Oliver keeps his attention on Rollins when he answers. “My wife’s college boyfriend was named Cooper Seldon.” The small frission of warmth he feels referring to Felicity as his wife is probably inappropriate given the circumstances.

Beside him, Bhavin scribbles a couple more lines onto his notepad.

Rollins nods slowly. “Can you tell me about your wife’s relationship with this Cooper Seldon?”

“Not really,” Oliver answers. He keeps his expression fully neutral, trying his best to uncover the strategy underlying this line of questioning. The key to this whole thing, he thinks, is whether the FBI knows that Felicity wrote the code used to attack QC. If they’re fishing because Cooper and Felicity knew each other, Oliver feels pretty good about their attorneys’ ability to keep Felicity clear of legal consequences. That plus the Queen family’s judicious application of political pressure should be enough to quash this absurd idea that Felicity might have been involved in the attack.

But if they know Cooper initial got the virus from Felicity... Well, Oliver hasn’t quite come up with a solution to that problem yet.

So he takes in a steadying breath, focusing on Rollins and Vasquez to the exclusion of all else, waiting for some kind of tip off.

Vasquez shifts impatiently, but Rollins holds a hand up without even glancing at his partner. He locks gazes with Oliver, and Oliver can see the intellect and the determination lurking under Rollins’ affable exterior. “You don’t know anything about your wife’s relationship with Seldon?”

Oliver lets the silence linger for a long moment, formulating exactly what he wants to say. “I know the basics of their relationship,” he allows. He actually knows very little, an oversight that he’ll need to fix as soon as he’s out of this fucking room. Felicity had been far too upset for him to press him for details when she’d told him about her ex, but they need to strategize.

“The basics,” Vasquez scoffs. “You didn’t ask her about her ex-boyfriends before you married her?”

It’s a particularly distasteful question, and Oliver has trouble repressing the hot flare of anger in his chest. With a little shake of his head, he fixes Vasquez with a flat glare. “A man with a history like mine doesn’t really get to dig into his wife’s prior relationships without opening up a really unflattering can of worms,” he points out. It’s true enough, and a plausible reason why he knows so little about Felicity and Cooper.

There’s an unfamiliar leaden weight in his gut every time he thinks about Felicity being with Cooper; Oliver wonders if this is what jealousy feels like.

Vasquez just glares at him, but Rollins says, “Tell us the basics, then.” His tone is less friendly and more insistent now. “Tell us what you know.”

Oliver glances at Bhavin, who gives him a nod of approval. With an annoyed sigh, Oliver says, “They dated for awhile when they were both students at MIT. They broke up when he ended up in prison.”

“You think they broke up?” Vasquez says, sounding amused.

Oliver stills, his mind whirling. “If you’re trying to suggest that my wife has a secret jailhouse boyfriend, I regret to inform you that Seldon killed himself years ago.” He shifts a bit in his seat, trying not to think about the way she’d cried when she told that part of the story.

Vasquez takes two sauntering steps closer, flanking Rollins on the other side of the metal table. “Cooper Seldon ‘died’--” Vasquez flings his hands up in exaggerated air quotes-- “in prison, because the virus he created was so complex and effective that the U.S. government wanted to get their hands on it -- and its creator.”

Oliver stops breathing -- Cooper’s not dead?

A half-beat later, he realizes with a little starburst of hope that Vasquez named Cooper as the virus’s creator.

But -- Cooper’s _alive_?

Oliver takes in a wheezing breath, his hands fisted against his thighs as he tries to process this new information.

“He worked for a special branch of the government right up until this past September,” Rollins picks up the story. Oliver whips his gaze to the man, desperate for detail, for an explanation. “And then one day he walked out of the office and disappeared off the grid.”

“Because,” Vasquez continues, “he and his ‘former’--” Sarcastic air quotes again-- “lady love were finally ready to put their updated Bonnie & Clyde act into motion. Why go after the Department of Education if you can just bilk a multi-billion dollar company of its money instead?”

Oliver shakes his head. “You’re wrong,” he tells them, his voice a little weaker than before. His chest feels oddly tight and he forces himself to take a deep breath. “Felicity has _nothing_  to do with--”

“Here’s what I think,” Vasquez interrupts, leaning forward to poke one emphatic finger into the table to punctuate his words. “Cooper’s interactions with one _Snowfinch_ \--” He puts sarcastic quote marks around what Oliver can only assume is some kind of codename-- “were how he and Felicity Smoak went about planning their secret meetups.”

“What could possibly give you the idea that Felicity is this Snowfinch person?” Oliver demands. Before he can go on, Bhavin places a calming hand on his arm.

“You’ve got a warrant for Ms. Smoak’s electronics, do you not?” Bhavin asks calmly.

Rollins nods. “Forensic evidence from Ms. Smoak’s computer at Queen Consolidated is part of our investigation, yes.”

Bhavin gives a short nod. “And yet you found no evidence of any kind that Ms. Smoak has anything to do with the person or persons going by the name Snowfinch,” he states.

“She’s some kind of computer genius,” Vasquez argues. “Is it really surprising she can make evidence go bye-bye?”

Bhavin scrawls something on his notebook. “So you have no evidence to support this wild conjecture about my client’s wife,” he summarizes.

Vasquez scowls at Bhavin, then turns his ire back on Oliver. “Why would a computer genius take a low-level job at Queen Consolidated if not for the inside access?”

“No,” Oliver snaps, his temper fraying rapidly. “You’re wrong about Felicity.”

Vasquez ignores Oliver’s protests, clearly relishing what he believes to be the big reveal. “Cooper timed his disappearance well, but then, out of nowhere, you _promoted_  her to be your new EA, giving her nearly unfettered access to the company systems _and_  its finances. Apparently in exchange for your _own_  unfettered access to--”

“Hey!” Lance and Oliver interrupt in unison, in defense of Felicity against Vasquez’s crude suggestion, and exchange uncomfortable looks.

Vasquez simply gets louder. “I think Snowfinch and Cooper disagreed about timing for the attack, because Felicity Smoak already had _you_ wrapped around her little finger, didn’t she?”

“ _No_.” Oliver’s standing, glaring right back at Vasquez. The other three men in the room jump to their feet in reaction, but Oliver ignores them all, glaring at Vasquez. He knows he needs to cool down, he knows Vasquez is pushing his buttons on purpose, trying to throw him off, make him mad, force him into a mistake. Oliver knows it, but he can’t quite make himself stop. “You. Are. _Wrong_.”

Vasquez smirks. “Stings, doesn’t it? Finding out you’re the mark.”

“I’m _not_ \--”

“You just married the woman who’s teamed up with her not-so-ex-boyfriend to drain all the money they can get out of your company.”

Oliver slams his fist on the table. “Felicity has nothing to do with this.”

And then Bhavin’s tugging on his arm, urging him towards the door. “That’s enough. Mr. Queen doesn’t need to listen to anymore of your fantastical theories.” Oliver hesitates, because he would enjoy nothing more than wiping that smug grin off of Vasquez’s face. But then Bhavin leans closer to him and says, “Your wife is waiting for you, Oliver.”

Gritting his teeth, Oliver makes himself nod in agreement. “We’re done here.”

Vasquez gives a carefree shrug. “That’s enough for tonight, Mr. Queen, but we’ll be seeing you and your lovely wife very soon.”

Stiff with repressed rage, Oliver heads for the door. 

& & &

As an intelligent, resourceful single woman, Felicity has spent a reasonable amount of time on disaster preparedness. She’s nowhere near the craziness factor of those survivalist types -- she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t do too well in the apocalypse, to be honest -- but she believes in game planning for worst case scenarios. Floods, fires, really bad storms, the zombie apocalypse -- whatever she can anticipate, she likes to be at least a little prepared to tackle.

But right now? Sitting in what can only be the formal dining room of the Queen mansion for high tea with Moira Queen, Thea, and her own mother, all the while _still wearing_  panties with the word BRIDE on her ass because she and Oliver got _married_  yesterday? This is _not_  a disaster she could have ever imagined, let alone prepared for.

To make things immeasurably worse, her _brand new husband_  is currently being questioned by the FBI and Felicity can’t focus on one single thing because that guy on the sidewalk outside of QC really, _really_  looked like Cooper.

She needs like a gallon of ice cream and three uninterrupted hours with her babies to research; instead, she’s trapped in some hellish farce of an in-law meet and greet.

And so Felicity sits numbly at the grand table beside Thea, fussing with the silverware and trying to keep her focus on the people in this room. Not on Oliver being questioned by the FBI. Not on her dead ex-boyfriend. Not on the QC attack, or how she’s _losing time_  every single second she sits here, an unwilling witness to Donna Smoak versus Moira Queen.

Moira and Donna are... _very_  different, but watching them interact, Felicity can see some surprising similarities. They are both observant and clever and fully versed in using every possible advantage. And they’ve been sizing each other up ever since they sat down at this overly large table, orchestrating little interrogations of each other.

Moira is attempting to keep Donna off-balance by playing the moneyed matriarch, ringing the bell for servants to provide the Vegas cocktail waitress with tea and cucumber sandwiches. Which -- _ick_ , by the way, but the overall strategy is also kind of effective. The place settings before the four women are elaborate, the silver flawlessly polished, the small sandwich plates and delicate teacups a matching, gold-plated pattern. Everything from Moira’s perfectly coiffed hair to the carefully dressed staffers bringing in coffee absolutely oozes stuffy, long-standing wealth -- the opposite of everything Donna Smoak, glitzy Vegas girl through and through.

Meanwhile, Donna sits there in her short, tight, cleavage-y dress that would fit better at Verdant after midnight than the Queen’s formal dining room. Donna takes small, tentative sips of tea and plays with her gaudy costume jewelry as she looks around with wide eyes. But Felicity recognizes this tactic -- growing up, she spent enough time in the Safari Casino with her mother to learn the ways Donna worked the fat cats for tips. She’s a shrewd woman who wears ditzy enthusiasm as armor, flattering and flirting her way to better tips.

Not that she’s flirting with Moira, obviously. She’s just... portraying exactly the unrefined, overly impressed woman the polished Queen matriarch expects to see. Felicity is proud of her mother’s stubborn refusal to be intimidated by the Queen’s wealth.

“Wow,” Donna says, brushing her perfect cascade of blonde waves back out of her face as she smiles widely at Moira, “this is quite fancy for a Vegas girl like me. It must be easier to keep such a lovely figure when you eat in these adorable little portions!” Donna shifts her attention to Felicity. “Felicity, baby, do you have these little bitty sandwiches with the Queens often?”

“Hmm?” Felicity is having trouble staying focused, despite the slow motion car crash happening right in front of her, because _i_ _s it possible_  that Cooper isn’t dead? “Oh,” she manages, “no, I... don’t.” Her mother keeps staring at her, eyebrows up in a silent demand for more information, but Felicity just shrugs. “Oliver and I spend a lot of time at--” She nearly says _Verdant_ \-- “my place.”

Thea snorts. “Well, _that_  definitely sounds like my brother.”

“No!” Felicity shakes her head a little too wildly, telling herself to focus on the minefield in front of her instead of the glimpse she caught of someone who kind of looks like her dead ex-boyfriend. “I didn’t mean--” She catches a dozen words about all the sex she and Oliver are _totally_  not having just before they tumble out of her mouth, pausing to take a large gulp of hot tea. Wincing, she swallows the scalding liquid. “I don’t spend a lot of time here,” she tells her mother as she sets the delicate china teacup back into its saucer with a little clatter.

“You and Oliver will live here, of course,” Moira says. Blandly. Like it’s just a simple statement of fact.

Felicity’s mouth drops open. “ _What_? No, I love my apartment and--”

“Nonsense,” Moira interjects smoothly, lifting the delicate porcelain teapot and refreshing her cup. “Oliver is a very important man with many determined enemies. He needs the security of the mansion.”

Felicity presses her lips together tightly. Because no. So much no, for so many reasons. None of which she can say aloud.

Plus, Thea is watching her with big, hopeful eyes, and she can’t find it in her to disappoint the girl who has so enthusiastically welcomed Felicity into her life. “Right,” Felicity agrees belatedly, and she really hopes no one can hear the strain in her voice. “Of course. It only makes sense.” She smiles at Moira. “The mansion has so many... rooms,” she finishes with all the conviction of a deflated balloon.

Donna claps her hands in delight. “Look at my smart little girl, all grown up and marrying into such a fine family.” She fixes Moira with a very bright, very false smile. “You must be so proud your son fell in love with such an accomplished young woman. My baby girl has _two_  Masters degrees!”

Moira hums a little noise of acknowledgment, and there’s not even the slightest note of sarcasm, but Felicity can _feel_  Moira’s lingering disapproval. “And you,” Moira responds, her tone deathly polite, “must be so pleased your daughter’s future is secure.”

The implication is clear, and Thea immediately snaps, “Mom.”

Whatever anger Felicity feels on her own behalf is immediately forgotten when the smile disappears from Donna’s face. Felicity recognizes the impending storm in her mother’s tense frame, and knows she only has about five seconds to avert this disaster. Because an honest, no-holds-barred face off between Moira Queen and Donna Smoak would be so, so, _so_  bad.

“Okay!” Felicity jumps up, drawing everyone’s attention. “I think I need to walk off some of this anxiety. Mom, would you like me to show you around the yard? I’m sure it’s pretty.” She glances at Thea. “It’s pretty, right?”

“The grounds,” Moira answers, a very slight emphasis on the word “grounds” to correct Felicity, “include a small rose garden, a water feature, and several seating areas. You are of course welcome to explore your new home.”

Despite her best efforts, Felicity cannot decide whether Moira Queen is being a high-handed jerk or a sincere new mother-in-law. “Thanks,” Felicity says, because winning Moira Queen over is a problem for another day. Or not worth the effort, since she and Oliver will be long-divorced before Felicity would expect to make much headway with Moira. At the thought, Felicity rubs her thumb against the very new, very strange wedding ring on her finger and ignores the pang in her chest. “Mom?” she says, reaching for her mother’s arm to get her moving.

The Smoak women move hurriedly out of the formal dining room, walking back toward the foyer. Felicity is _sure_  there are a bunch of different exits in this oversized place, but she really only knows the one, so they head for the main entrance.

When they emerge into the bright but chilly afternoon, her mother rounds on her before the huge wooden door snicks shut behind them. “Okay, baby girl, you asked me to be patient and you’d explain everything when we had a moment.” The bracelets on Donna’s arms jangle and clank together as she gestures expansively to the empty driveway and the large, carefully cultivated yard beyond.

“Mom,” Felicity starts, “if you--”

“Felicity--” Wow, does Felicity remember _that_  particular tone of voice-- “Why was it so important for you to marry Oliver yesterday? Are you in trouble with that hack-y thing at work?”

“No.” Felicity loops her arm through her mother’s and pulls her towards the path that curves around the side of the house. There must be some benches around somewhere. “I mean, _probably not_  in trouble.” She can’t really say for sure right now, particularly since Oliver is _still_  at the precinct. It’s difficult for Felicity to stay put instead of racing to the police station; she is so angry with herself for not having the foresight to send Oliver off with a comm device so she could have _some_  idea what’s going on. “I’m not really sure why the police were focused on me,” she tells her mother. It’s a half-truth at best.

“I know you didn’t do anything wrong, Felicity. I may not read the newspapers, but I’m perfectly aware that there’s corruption.” Donna pulls Felicity to a stop. “Baby, please tell me whether you’re in trouble.”

“I’m not,” Felicity assures her mother, even though she’s not fully convinced herself. “You’re right -- I didn’t have anything to do with the attack on QC, but because it’s sophisticated,” she pauses minutely, reframing things for her mother’s level of interest, “computer stuff, they thought I _could_  have been involved.” Felicity backs up two steps, beckoning her mother to follow. It’s sunny, but a bit too chilly out here to stand still in her summery white dress.

Also, she’s restless, her anxiety pushing her to _do something_ , even if that something is simply pacing.

Donna follows Felicity reluctantly, her frame tense and her tone of voice demanding as she asks, “Okay, but what I don’t understand is how marrying your boss protects you?”

It’s a fair question, and one that’s hard to explain without sharing the whole truth. Which Felicity obviously can’t do. “Um.”

They round the corner of the mansion, and Felicity’s momentarily distracted by what looks like a formal English garden. Because _seriously_? Though Moira mentioned a _water feature_ , so probably Felicity should have expected this level of landscaping. The cobblestone path branches off, and she chooses to head towards the carefully cultivated bushes, buying herself a bit more time to figure out how to explain.

“Oliver’s family has a lot of clout in Starling,” she begins, trying to tell as much of the truth as possible. The Queen family cachet is definitely part of the rationale for this… _tactic_. “And Oliver thought that making me a-- a Queen--” God, that still sounds crazy, but the kind of crazy that she maybe desperately wants-- “would help. Plus: better lawyers.”

Donna stops walking suddenly. Felicity takes another half-step, then turns back to find her mother watching her with narrowed eyes. She starts to panic, but when Donna speaks, she asks a much tougher question than Felicity expected. “How long have you been in love with him?”

“What?” Felicity stutters on a burst of adrenaline.

The question throws her off, wriggles past all of her defenses. Because she might maybe, _probably_  be more than a little bit in love with Oliver, but she doesn’t want to be -- not like this. Not when this pretend relationship requires them to convincingly _appear_  to be in love with each other. Because what Felicity is struggling with is a way to _act_ as if she loves Oliver without letting her heart start to believe it’s okay to actually _feel_  it.

She grasps for an answer to her mother’s question that is convincing, but not necessarily _true_. “I mean, uh--”

“A year, right?” Donna asks quietly.

“A _year_?” Felicity sputters. “Why would you--?”

“Felicity,” Donna chides, taking Felicity’s hand and squeezing to ease the sting of her words. “I know we don’t have much in common. I know I don’t understand all your computer-y things, but I wish you’d at least share _this_  part of your life with me.”

“Mom, I...” But Felicity has nothing to say, because her mother’s right -- they aren’t close, not really. Not anymore. And the lonely, abandoned little girl that Felicity used to be _so badly_  misses her mom. She steps a little closer. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just tell me about _this_. Tell me about Oliver.” Donna smiles encouragingly. “Being in love with your husband is a _good_  thing, honey.”

And just for a moment, just for this slice of time standing here in a weird formal garden with her mother, Felicity lets herself feel it. She remembers how passionately Oliver kissed her, the way his gaze burned against her skin in that honeymoon suite. She thinks about how his smile always gets a little softer when it’s directed at her, and the way he touches her shoulders so, so carefully. She looks down at the shiny ring on her finger that Oliver put there and just lets herself _react_  to the fact that she’s _married to him_.

Because, yes, she loves her husband. She’s _in_  love with Oliver. She is wholeheartedly, unreservedly, _stupidly_  in love with him.

“Oliver is amazing,” she tells her mother, a smile breaking out on her face even as her vision goes a little blurry. “I love him,” she admits, the truth finally tumbling out of her, “I’ve been at least half in love with him since we met. Mom, he’s not who you think he is -- not anymore, at least. The Oliver I know is brave and passionate and determined--”

“And _handsome_ ,” Donna interjects, nudging her daughter.

“And handsome,” Felicity agrees with a little laugh. “Oliver is stubborn and impossible sometimes, but he’s got the best heart. I just never thought we’d--” She stops short on a sob. She’d never really thought they’d be together, and no matter what everyone thinks, no matter how easily they’re fooling their families, Felicity is _still right_  about that. They aren’t together; they’re married, sure, but as a tactic. They have to fix the attack on QC and keep themselves out of jail, and the absolute last thing that matters in the midst of all of this is that she’s in love with Oliver.

Heartbreak hits her hard and fast, and she lifts a hand to cover her mouth.

“Oh, baby girl,” Donna says, misunderstanding the cause of Felicity’s tears, no doubt, but wrapping her daughter up in a hug regardless.

Drowning under the weight of her realizations, Felicity wants nothing more than the tell her mother the truth; to ask her mom why the men she falls for never seem to love her back. Donna is, after all, the person who got Felicity through her first broken heart with an overnight stay at the Safari’s sister casino out in Reno, where they’d stayed up and watched terrible movies and eaten obscene amounts of ice cream.

But she can’t. She can admit to her mother that she loves Oliver -- God, she loves that impossible man -- but not the rest. Somehow, she needs to hide her heartbreak. As she leans into her mother’s familiar embrace, Felicity lets herself cry, just for a minute. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I should’ve told you about Ol-- about this.”

Her mother tsks, gently swaying, rubbing Felicity’s back. Then she leans back, taking hold of Felicity’s arms. “I can see how much you love him,” she says. “And you must know how much that man adores you.”

Felicity tenses up involuntarily. Because -- yeah, okay -- maybe she has strong, very ridiculous, no longer deniable feelings for Oliver, but they’re certainly not _reciprocated_. Which is not actually something she can explain to her mother.

“I know exactly why you’re doubting things.” Donna eases back, squeezing Felicity’s biceps gently. She waits until Felicity meets her gaze to continue. “But, honey, you can’t let what your dad did make you--”

“No,” Felicity twists out of her mother’s grasp, overwhelmed. Because she’d cried every night for _weeks_  when her dad left, refusing her mother’s comfort when she’d assumed it must’ve been something Donna did. Once Felicity’s brain allowed the possibility that her father had left because of _her_ , she’d retreated into a quiet, persistent self-doubt.

And at the end of every relationship she’s ever had, Felicity has taken that belief out and re-examined it -- is there something about her that makes people leave her? She is logical, after all, and she knows when _she_  is the common variable among all of her failed relationships that she has to at least _consider_  that it’s her fault.

Felicity turns away from her mother, moving towards the carefully maintained shrubbery. She can’t handle talking about this with her mother, _especially_  not in this context. Her fears of abandonment, and her belief that there is something fundamentally _unlovable_  about her are real and deep-seated. The worst part is that she signed up for this fake marriage _knowing_  the only outcome is for Oliver to leave her at the end. It doesn’t even matter that she knew this going in, because her heart doesn’t listen to logic; it never has.

There’s no way out of this but through, so she she gives herself exactly ten seconds to really _feel_  everything before packing it all away. She’s an expert at this -- at boxing up these overwhelming feelings and doing her best to ignore them. So she straightens her spine and turns back to her mother. “I’m fine. Really. But I need to--” She breaks off at the disappointed look on her mother’s face. “Mom,” she says, stepping closer, “it’s been a crazy couple of days, and I think I need a nap. Plus, I have a couple work-related things to take care of.”

Her mother protests -- something about Oliver being hauled off, or maybe something about how Oliver and Felicity should be doing other things as newlyweds, but Felicity doesn’t even slow down. Instead, she promises to send Thea out so they can start planning the wedding reception. She hopes it will keep her mother and Thea occupied long enough for her to make some progress on countering her old code. Even if the thought of what Thea Queen and Donna Smoak could put together in a few days’ time is mildly horrifying.

The only place Felicity knows how to find in this oversized mansion is the guest room she spent one night in, so she heads there. Diggle appears as she reaches the top of the stairs, falling into step beside her. “Everything okay?”

“Not even close,” she answers tightly. She is holding herself together with bungee cords and willpower at this point. “I need my laptop and three uninterrupted hours.”

Dig matches her pace. “Your laptop’s in your room, along with your bags, but--”

“But I really need clothes,” she realizes. “ _My_  clothes, I mean, and not novelty panties with the word ‘BRIDE’ on the ass.”

Diggle actually stumbles beside her. “Please tell me you’re not--”

“Blame Thea,” she snaps. “And Oliver’s boxers say ‘GROOM,’ so, you know, spread your disapproval around.”

At that, Diggle starts to laugh, a full, enthusiastic kind of laugh. It’s so engaging that Felicity finds herself grinning up at him, despite _everything_.

She’s still smiling as she reaches for the guest room door, but her amusement fades into confusion as she steps inside. “Uh, John? Where’s my stuff?” The guest room -- _Tommy’s_  room -- looks as pristine and untouched as when she’d arrived the other night. There’s no sign of her messenger bag or yesterday’s clothes or -- most importantly -- her freaking laptop.

“Felicity.”

Diggle is out of sight, still in the hallway, so she steps out of the room with a frustrated huff. “What’s going on?”

He’s standing at the door to Oliver’s room, and Felicity’s stomach gives a little lurch before he even opens his mouth. “Mrs. Queen,” he drawls, “you and Oliver share a bedroom now that you’re husband and wife. 

& & &

Oliver is still boiling mad when he reaches the mansion. He pays the cabbie and slams the car door, stalking towards the entryway. He’s irritated he had to waste so much time on that interrogation, he’s angry that the agents still believe Felicity had anything to do with this clusterfuck, and he’s absolutely _pissed_  at Cooper Seldon.

All he knows about the guy so far is that he used Felicity’s invention for his own purposes and then let her believe he’d _died_. Prick.

Before Oliver can decide between searching for Felicity and her mother right away, or retreating to his room to cool down a little bit first, Diggle appears from the west wing hallway.

“How is she?” Oliver asks. He realizes as the words tumble from his mouth that the question is more than a little revealing -- he’s just been interrogated by the FBI, and his family’s company is still under threat, but his first thought is for Felicity.

That’s nothing new, really; the only thing that’s changed is that Oliver is starting to understand what that _means_. He’s starting to wrestle with the idea that this warm, constant, affectionate need to be around her, to protect her, is some sort of permanent condition.

It’s terrifying, being in love with her.

An arch of Diggle’s all-knowing eyebrow is his only comment on Oliver’s priorities. “I took Donna to Felicity’s,” he says, joining Oliver at the foot of the west stairwell, “and picked up some of Felicity’s stuff to bring back for her when she agreed to stay.”

It honestly hadn’t even _occurred_  to Oliver that Felicity might not stay here with him, because they’re married, and shouldn’t they live together? For appearances, at least? They spend most of their waking hours together already, but after last night in the hotel room, and the night she’d spent in an adjoining bedroom here at the mansion, it turns out that Oliver craves even more of her presence.

It’s only been two days, but he already wants more of those intimate, unguarded moments with her. Kissing her for the cameras is one thing, but seeing her sleepy eyes blink open in the soft dawn light, watching her grumble and groan her way out of bed in the morning is somehow on another level.

Oliver hadn’t even considered the idea that she _wouldn’t_  stay with him at the mansion until Dig raised it, but learning that she’s here makes his shoulders loosen. He takes a breath. “Thanks.”

Dig nods. “Your mother is somewhere in the east wing, Thea’s in the TV room, and Felicity is working the problem upstairs.” There’s an undertone of amusement in Diggle’s voice, and Oliver furrows his brow in response. Diggle doesn’t explain, moving on to the FBI. “How’d it go with the cops?”

“Good,” he answers, which is probably an exaggeration. He never quite managed to draw all suspicion away from Felicity, or contradict Vasquez’s idiotic theory, but he also hadn’t totally lost his temper. And he got some important information. So more good than bad. “I have some news, though -- come talk to Felicity with me.”

Diggle is already shaking his head, holding his hands up to ward off Oliver’s request. “Look, I told you I’m supportive of you and Felicity, but I do _not_  need to witness any shenanigans.” He gives an exaggerated shudder.

“Any--” But Oliver stops short at the implication, momentarily distracted. Because thinking about any sort of _shenanigans_  brings to mind that vivid image of Felicity lifting the hem of that gorgeous red dress to reveal the ribbon around her thigh. And then he’s hit by the memory of the way she’d pressed up onto her toes to kiss him senseless right there in front of God and Diggle and everyone.

And… Diggle is laughing at him. “Man, you are hopeless, you know that?”

“Dig,” Oliver protests, “there are no _shenanigans_. I told you that.” And if he sounds a little sad about it, well, tough. He _is_ a little sad about it.

“Right, yeah,” Dig agrees affably, “‘cause you certainly didn’t kiss her _at your wedding_  with a lot more gusto than expected, and you definitely didn’t kiss her at that press conference like a man in love--”

“Dig, come on,” Oliver interrupts sharply. He can feel the burn of a blush across his cheeks and turns away from his friend. Because he might love Felicity, but he can’t have her. Which means he needs to keep himself under control.

“Hey.” Diggle reaches out, restraining Oliver with a hand on his arm. “Hang on a second.”

Frame tight with tension, Oliver turns back, wordlessly capitulating. Oliver isn’t above admitting he’s not entirely sure how to handle things with Felicity now that she’s his _wife_. Because he’s no longer able to deny the way he feels about her, but he’s not actually with her. This fucking tactic of his has created the biggest challenge to his asceticism yet, and he doesn’t know how to ask for advice -- not about this. But Dig clearly wants to have this conversation, so Oliver will at least listen.

“Look,” Diggle says, dropping his hold, “I know you care about her. Hell, you _love_  her. I know you’re struggling with this, and there’s a lot going on around you both -- a lot of people with a lot of opinions. But you need to talk to Felicity. She deserves to know where your head’s at.”

“John--”

“Talk to her,” Diggle interrupts with an exasperated shrug. “You’re crazy if you think this is one-sided.”

“It’s not that,” he protests. When Diggle quirks a skeptical eyebrow in response, Oliver sighs. He knows that Felicity is attracted to him; she hasn’t exactly been subtle. But she has a better idea of his darkness, of his demons, than any other woman alive -- except maybe Sara. And while Sara has been through her own traumas and come out with her own scars, Felicity is altogether different from them. She’s a bundle of hopeful enthusiasm, a cheerful balm to his soul. What could she possibly see in him, other than the physical? What does he have to offer her? “It’s not _just_ that,” he amends.

“Then what is it?” Diggle asks with a half-shrug.

“All of the press coverage, the attack on QC, putting Felicity in the crosshairs of all of my enemies,” Oliver ticks off. “ _All_  of that is my fault. She’s much better off without me.”

“That’s not how life works, man.” Diggle leans back against the bannister. “That sure as hell isn’t the way love works.”

Oliver wants to protest, because it _is_  how life works -- at least his life. He ruins people, he leads them to death and darkness, however unwittingly. He’s responsible for Sara’s demons, for Shado’s death, for Slade’s. He’s the reason Tommy died, and the reason Laurel is still so angry. No matter what he does, no matter how much better he tries to be, he screws up. He makes mistakes, and other people pay for it.

He won’t let that happen to Felicity.

But he can’t bring himself to explain that to Diggle. “I can’t be what she needs, John,” he says quietly. “I don’t know how.”

Diggle watches him for a long moment, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “There’s no handbook, Oliver,” he says tiredly. “If this is worth it -- if _she’s_  worth it -- then you try your hardest. It’s up to her to decide if that’s what she needs.”

That suggestion scares Oliver for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, and he takes a defensive step back. “I can’t,” Oliver says, “not yet. Not right now.”

Diggle sighs. “Oliver.”

“Look, there’s something else we need to talk about. Her ex-boyfriend, the one who used her,” Oliver grimaces, “code... virus... thing.” When Diggle goes utterly still, head tilted in acute curiosity, Oliver’s instincts kick up to red alert. “Cooper Seldon didn’t die in prison.”

“Oh, shit,” Diggle says, turning abruptly and heading for the stairs. “She thought she saw him today, Oliver. Outside QC after the press conference.”

Panic hits, and Oliver is taking the stairs two at a time, racing past Diggle in his sudden need to see for himself that Felicity is safe. Because there are multiple possible explanations for Cooper Seldon being involved in the hack on QC, many of which are unrelated to Felicity. But showing up at the press conference about Felicity’s marriage to him? That can only be motivated by something personal.

Oliver runs right past the door to his own bedroom, aiming for Tommy’s guest room, but he skids to a stop when he hears Diggle call his name. “She’s in here,” Dig says, standing beside Oliver’s bedroom door.

There’s a whole knot of complicated emotions in Oliver’s gut as he takes a few long strides back to the door and throws it open, scanning the room for threats and for-- “Felicity.”

She’s curled up in the corner of the couch, that big clunky laptop perched on her thighs, blinking owlishly at him from behind her glasses. “What?” She shakes herself out of the fog of one of her coding hazes, her confusion shifting to something he doesn’t quite recognize. “What’s wrong?”

Oliver steps into his bedroom, his heart rate coming back down to normal now that she’s here in front of him, unharmed. She’s in fuzzy pajama pants with little wine glasses all over them and a t-shirt that says “Must be Wines-day,” and she is so adorable she nearly distracts him from what he has to tell her. “Felicity…” He has no idea how to say any of this -- how do you tell the woman you love that her tragic, long lost lover is actually alive and well?

She sits up, moving the laptop to the coffee table and pressing her palms against her thighs. “Oh, God, what did they ask you? Did they figure out about our, you know, our _nights_  together?”

Behind him, Diggle huffs a laugh, and Oliver is grinning at her when he says, “No, it was fine.” The two men move towards her, Diggle all but herding Oliver to take the seat beside her while he settles on the chair.

“Fine? Your forehead is all crinkled in the way that suggest it wasn't actually fine, Oliver.” Felicity looks back and forth between them, her eyes wide and scared. “You guys are really freaking me out right now. How bad is it? They didn’t arrest you immediately, which is, you know, good. Right? That seems like a good sign, but maybe we should call Jean and Bhavin. Do we need a strategy session, or maybe--?”

“Felicity.” It’s Diggle who breaks in, his tone gentle. “The man you saw earlier at QC?”

Her body goes rigid, like she’s bracing herself for a blow. “Yeah?” she breathes.

Oliver knows he should let Diggle break this to her, he knows he’s going to mess it up somehow, but he feels responsible for her. It’s supposed to be just a tactic, but she’s his _wife_ , and he needs to be the one to get her through this. So he reaches over, touching her shoulder to get her attention. When she turns those beautiful blue eyes to him, Oliver swallows. “The FBI agents, they said--” He takes a breath. “They said Cooper didn’t die in prison. His death was faked, and he started working for a secret government agency.”

Felicity just stares at him, unblinking. Uncomprehending. 

“Cooper’s alive, Felicity,” Oliver explains, watching her closely. He has no idea how to anticipate her reaction to this news. He doesn’t know enough about her relationship with Cooper to predict whether she’ll be happy or angry or sad or any combination of those things upon learning he’s alive. 

She blinks. “Cooper’s alive,” she echoes blankly.

Diggle reaches over, wrapping her tiny hand in his. “Apparently so.”

“I don’t understand,” she says slowly. “I don’t _understand_ how-- They said he hung himself. They said he ripped his bedsheets into strips and then braided them together for strength, and then hung himself from the bars after lights out. They said,” she continues, her words speeding up, the bottled up horror driving her to speak faster and faster, “that it wasn’t fast like a broken neck, but slow and awful and-- I have had _nightmares_  about this, and it’s -- what -- fake? That’s all a lie? Cooper’s been alive all this time, and he just let me think that was true?”

She’s crying now, tears streaming down cheeks flushed pink with heightened emotion -- some combination of grief and anger and something that looks oddly like guilt. Oliver reaches for her, tugging her closer so he can wrap his arms around her. “Felicity,” he murmurs, aching in empathy.

Her fingers claw at his shirt, pulling herself closer. “He let me believe he killed himself because of me?” she asks, the corner of her glasses pressed against his collarbone, her breath warm against his chest.

“Oh, hey, no,” Oliver tightens his grip on her, rocking her a bit and just barely resisting the urge to press a kiss to the crown of her head. He smooths his hand down her back, marveling at just how small she is in his arms. Her personality, her presence is so outsized that he forgets how tiny she actually is. “None of this has _ever_  been because of you, Felicity.”

“No,” Felicity says, moving suddenly, pushing back and out of his grasp. “No, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” She swipes her fingers beneath her glasses then straightens them carefully. “I need to do this work,” she says with a sniffle 

“Felicity,” Diggle says, “it’s okay to take a minute with this.”

“We don’t _have_ a minute,” she snaps. Then she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I just -- I need to work on this code.” She opens her eyes and gives a wide, fake smile to Diggle before turning to Oliver. “I know this is your room and it’s really not fair of me to kick you out of it, but I’m really close with the algorithm. I need to focus on this right now. Okay?”

It’s not. It’s really not. Her hands are still trembling, and he can tell she’s holding herself together out of sheer stubbornness. “Felicity.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats, a note of irritation in her words now. “I’m-- I’m glad he’s not dead, but that really doesn’t change anything. He still--” She stops short, presses her lips together.

“He still what?” Oliver prompts.

“Doesn’t matter,” she tells him brightly. “I just need...” she takes a deep breath. “I just need to be alone.”

Felicity doesn’t wait for a response. She reaches for her laptop and drags it back onto the couch, hunching over slightly as she gets to work.

Oliver hesitates, because he really doesn’t think leaving her alone right now is what she needs. “Felicity,” he says quietly.

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t look up. “Please just go.”

Diggle is already up and moving for the door, and Oliver reluctantly follows suit. When he reaches the doorway, he turns back. “I’ll be back later with dinner, okay?”

Finally, Felicity glances up at him, her face pale in the blue light from the monitor. He can’t tell if there are tears in her eyes, but her voice is low and unsteady when she says, “Thanks.”

Oliver nods and pulls the door shut behind him, a hollow feeling in his chest. Because she doesn’t need to go through this alone. He wants to be there for her -- why won’t she let him?

 

END CHAPTER EIGHT


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

Felicity wakes groggily.

And also very warm; overheated, even.

The room is dim, leaving her without any indication of what time it is, and she feels as if she’s been stuffed into the middle of a marshmallow and then tossed on a fire. With a grumbling kind of huff, she struggles free of the layers of down comforters and high-thread count sheets, emerging to find bright lines of daylight seeping in around the edges of the unfamiliar drapes here in -- oh.

Oliver’s room. Right.

She glances around, searching for him, but she’s alone in his room. _Their_  room, she supposes, and the thought makes her fluttery even though the designation is temporary. And fake. And also possibly inaccurate, at the moment, since there’s no indication that he’s even been here since he brought her dinner last night and retreated with a sad, searching look.

She feels a little bad about pushing him away, but she also needs solitude to process life-altering events. Like the revelation about Cooper. So maybe it was a bit mean to kick Oliver out of his own room, but she’d dearly needed some space. To his credit, he’d given it to her, regardless of the lost puppy dog eyes he’d turned her way before leaving her alone with her laptop for the rest of the night.

Felicity frowns, looking for said laptop. She spots it on the coffee table, closed and placed in precise alignment with the table edges, which suggests Oliver’s involvement. She doesn’t remember putting herself to bed, either, which means -- and she flushes at the thought -- it’s highly probable that Oliver found her asleep on her laptop and put her (and her laptop) to bed. “Frak,” she whispers, and she’s honestly not sure whether she’s embarrassed at the idea, or angry that she’d slept through such a kind, domestic moment.

And why couldn’t Oliver keep up his gruff, annoying, thoughtless thing when she’s trying to maintain some kind of emotional distance? The attentive, gentle version of Oliver is impossible to resist.

All of these pointless, unrequited _feelings_  she has for him make her grumpy.

She’s also pretty mad at herself for falling asleep before solving the problem. She’s confident she’s about 98% of the way to being able to defeat her own virus. Turns out, 2013!Felicity is _way_ more experienced in the ways of fighting code with code than 2008!Felicity. It’s just that 2013!Felicity hasn’t faced very many hackers as talented as 2008!Felicity -- she’s not sure whether to be proud of that or frustrated. But she will prevail, because the one quality that she and Oliver share in spades is _stubbornness_.

“I’ve got this,” she tells herself, rolling out of bed and padding barefoot into the en suite.

The absurdly large bathroom is decorated in navy accents, dark woods, and sleek grey tile, and is utterly devoid of the personality of the man who lives here. In fact, it’s so impersonal, she can almost convince herself she’s just at a _really_  swanky hotel.

Until she turns on the water and steps into the shower, and the steam intensifies the faint scent of _Oliver_. Felicity reaches for the bottle of his bodywash and opens it, inhaling the woodsy, vaguely pine-y scent -- it brings a rush of memories of Oliver.

Sweaty, post-workout Oliver.

Angry about-to-hit-the-streets Oliver.

Impossibly handsome _groom_  Oliver, who’d kissed her senseless smelling just like this.

Felicity snaps the bottle shut and puts it back, telling herself she’s being ridiculous. Diggle, bless his soul, brought over her toiletries, including her familiar citrus-y bodywash, so she’s able to avoid walking around with Oliver’s scent on her all day. She washes quickly, stepping out of the shower and wrapping her hair and body in separate dark blue towels. At which point she realizes that she left all of her clothing out in the room.

She scampers out into the ridiculously oversized bedroom after confirming Oliver is still nowhere to be found. The duffel Dig packed for her is lying on the floor beside the large burnished oak bureau, and while she retrieves leggings and a t-shirt easily, it takes some serious digging to locate undergarments. Which _clearly_  were packed by her mother, because there are no comfy cute panties and practical t-shirt bras. Nope. Instead, Felicity has her choice of third-date-appropriate sexy lingerie. All lace, all skimpy -- lacy fire engine red; bright lacy pink with tiny bows; classic black lace; saucy purple and red lace; or a bridal-looking white that makes Felicity flush.

These are mostly _not_  from her lingerie collection, which means her mother _bought her sexy underwear_.

Felicit groans, but grabs the pink set with the tiny bows that she bought at that shop downtown. “At least these are _mine_ ,” she grumbles.

As she stands, holding her listing towel in place with one hand and fuchsia lace with the other, the bedroom door opens after a perfunctory knock. She makes a truly embarrassing squeaking noise and freezes. Oliver pauses in the doorway, staring at her with wide, surprised eyes. He’s wearing a grey-blue suit and a crisp white shirt, with a purple tie knotted loosely around his neck. And he’s carrying a mug of coffee.

His cheeks flush as his gaze drops to the pink panties in her hand, then the towel that is covering everything that needs covering, but just barely. “I--” He stops, swallows hard, and looks back up at her. She can’t quite identify the look in his eyes; what she _thinks_  she sees is impossible. Oliver clears his throat. “I brought you coffee.”

She gives him a jerky nod, ignoring the way her innards keeps flip-flopping around in embarrassed anxiety. “Thanks. I’ll just--” She steps backwards, towards the bathroom, hyper-aware of the feel of high-quality cotton against her damp skin-- “get dressed.”

“Yes, okay.” Oliver seems to break out of his paralysis, moving toward the small seating area as she bolts to the en suite and pulls the door shut behind her with a resounding thud.

She leans back against the door and closes her eyes for a moment, stifling an indignant whine. Whatever calm she’d gained by getting several hours’ sleep seems to have disappeared with Oliver’s entrance.

Her hands shake a little as she dresses, and she pulls the towel turban off of her head, shaking her hair out and finger combing it. “Guess I’ll leave it curly today,” she tells her reflection, then takes a deep breath. She doesn’t bother with makeup, since there’s _coffee_  and also Oliver waiting for her.

When she emerges from the bathroom, Oliver is sitting stiffly at the end of the couch, his hands pressed flat against his thighs. Her gaze skims and skips along his form, before she spots the coffee mug on the table in front of him. Felicity approaches slowly, scooping up the mug before settling on the other end of the couch. “Thank you,” she says, taking several sips to jump start her brain. “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten,” he answers. When she shoots him a panicky look, he holds up a calming hand. “It’s fine,” he tells her. “You were up really late.”

Her cheeks heat and she stares down at her coffee. “Thank you for...” She waves a hand toward the bed, unable to put the rest into words. _Thank you for carrying me to bed like some kind of Victorian hero_  is not an appropriate thing to say to the man you are in love with who is simply playing the part of your fake husband. Felicity is almost sure that’s true.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Oliver tells her.

She pulls her laptop closer and turns it on, making her way through half of her coffee as it boots up. She’s definitely awake now, and mostly caffeinated enough to dive right back into coding. Sure, she _should_ eat, but  Oliver is simply sitting there beside her, not speaking, and it’s a little unnerving. She ignores her unease and begins to scan the code she wrote last night.

She’s tense, trying not to react to Oliver’s unwavering attention. He’s just sitting there, doing nothing but watching her. “Do you need something?” she asks brightly, turning a determined smile his way.

Oliver eyes her suspiciously, and when he shifts, and the couch moves beneath her. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I need to focus on this,” she answers, turning her attention back to the laptop screen, searching for the last few lines, which she’d apparently coded while falling asleep.

And, yup, it’s fairly easy to locate because a perfectly good command line disintegrates into nonsense involving the left half of the QWERTY keyboard. She really did fall asleep on her laptop. Awesome.

She flexes her fingers and shakes her hands to loosen her wrists, then erases the jumble of letters. “I can do this,” she mumbles, trying to recapture the elegance of last night’s idea.

“I know you can,” Oliver answers quietly.

His tone is calm and _certain_ , and she whips her gaze to his. He’s watching her with that oddly soft expression; he’s watching her with affection. It’s too much -- she can’t allow herself to let him in any further than he’s already burrowed.

“As far as I can tell,” he adds softly, with a strange kind of admiration in his voice, “you can do damn near anything you set your mind to.”

Felicity blinks, unnerved by these little moments, these windows into the _real_  Oliver -- the one with strong but strongly guarded emotions. Catching a glimpse of the depth of his regard for her, -- particularly _here_ , in his bedroom, in this peculiar circumstance -- it’s almost enough to make her believe what she thinks she sees in his eyes.

“Felicity,” he says, half-turning and bringing one knee up onto the cushions, slinging his arm along the back of the couch so that his hand rests just above her shoulder. “Can you tell me more about Cooper.”

“Cooper,” she echoes numbly.

Right. Cooper.

Reality hits her square in the face.

Oliver is being kind and protective and that’s it. Which is probably a terrible way to think about things, because Oliver is an incredible man who will do anything for the people he  cares about. And even if he doesn’t care about her the way she wants, or the same way she cares about him, it’s _enough_. It’s enough that he’s let her in, that he considers her worth protecting, even if he doesn’t love her. She just needs to do a way better job of protecting her stupid, stubborn heart.

“If he’s involved in this,” Oliver continues, “if he’s alive and in Starling, I need to know how to track him down. I’m--” He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry to push you, Felicity, but you know him best so--”

Her bitter laugh cuts him off. “Clearly I don’t,” she answers, remembering a dozen declarations of love from Cooper, a dozen times he’d looked at her with what she thought was love in his eyes. Clearly, she’s always been terrible at this. “The guy I thought loved me would _never_  have let me think--” She breaks off when her voice starts to shake.

“Felicity.” Just her name, spoken so softly that it makes her chest ache with longing.

She straightens her spine, takes a fortifying breath, and tries to think about Cooper, about his ideas and his actions from a purely analytical standpoint. “He’s smart,” she says. “Determined. Stubborn even. And when we -- He was very focused on leveling the playing field.” She frowns, remembering their old conversations and arguments about his hacktivism. “He made it sound logical -- stealing from the rich to give to the poor. He made it sound like justice, like striking a blow against the repressive forces of the status quo, but looking back, there was at least a little... _anarchism_  in his plans.”

“Anarchism?” Oliver asks, brow furrowed. “How did he--?”

“He wanted to erase all records of student loans,” she explains. “As the proud, overly burdened owner of several student loans myself, that sounds really appealing -- it sounds like giving heavily indebted students a fresh start. But in the bigger picture, it’s also an attack on the Department of Education.” Oliver frowns, watching her closely, and she realizes she’s jumped past her reasoning and just offered him her conclusion. “A successful, publicly reported hack like that would’ve exposed them as a target for other hackers, and erasing more than a _trillion_  dollars in student debt removes what’s probably a fairly significant piece of their annual budget. And what about the intermediary banks involved in student loan servicing? What happens to them? He could’ve reduced all the debts, halved them, even, but he wanted to erase all records. Erasing that amount of debt could’ve made the 2008 crisis look like a walk in the park. It would’ve destabilized the system -- and I think,” she pauses, still grappling with the realization. “I think maybe he _wanted_  to.” Speaking her suspicions aloud leaves a hollow pit in her stomach, and she sets aside her mug and the last few sips of her coffee.

Oliver has that blank expression on his face that means he’s working through a problem. “You think Cooper might be an anarchist?” he asks slowly.

She nods, turning to him. “If he’s behind the QC hack, it’d be the same concept -- expose a company’s weakness to cyber attack, and that will attract other hackers. It  _has_  attracted more attacks,” she says. “But think it through -- what if they steal all of QC’s valuable trade secrets? What if they erased all of QC’s financial records, so that it can’t bill or collect revenue?” Oliver looks a little pale, his mouth tightening as he takes in her words. She presses on, “What happens if a multi-billion dollar company fails overnight? What happens to the stock exchange? To the economy overall?” She feels a chill down her spine. Could Cooper really be this destructive?

“Felicity, would Cooper have targeted Queen Consolidated if he didn’t know you worked there?” Oliver asks gently. “Do you think this is personal?”

And there’s the question she’s been steadfastly avoiding since learning that Cooper’s alive. Logic dictates that he’s the person who would’ve been most able to use her virus in an attack, and the underlying purpose of the attack tracks with Cooper’s worst instincts from before. But could he really have chosen QC because of her?

Could he really hate her _that_  much?

“He doesn’t have any ties to Starling that I’m aware of,” she whispers. “He’s from New York, and he went to MIT, and then--” She swallows. “Then he went to Leavenworth prison. I don’t know why he’d be here, or why he’d go after QC unless... unless he blames me for everything.”

It’s a disheartening thought, and she curls into herself. She’d begged Cooper to let her confess, but he’d refused. She’d tried to get the FBI agents to talk to her, but they’d wanted nothing to contradict the sworn confession Cooper’d given. She’d spent years regretting letting him take the fall, and shouldering the guilt for his suicide.

And now she finds out that he’s alive, which should be great news, except that he’s so angry with her that he’s targeted Oliver’s family’s company as some kind of hack-tastic fuck you. She sniffles, trying to hold back tears, because, _God_ , she does not have time for a pity party.

Oliver’s big, warm palm lands on her shoulder, and he squeezes gently. “Felicity, whatever twisted reasons Cooper has for this, _none_  of it is your fault.”

She nods, even though she knows he’s wrong. Her very presences at the company put it in Cooper’s crosshairs, so of _course_  it’s her fault. But she also knows Oliver won’t leave her alone to fix things unless she convinces him she’s fine. “Don’t you need to be at work?” she prompts.

Oliver glowers at her. “Felicity.”

“I mean, _I’m_  on enforced vacation, but you’re not. And I need another couple hours with this.” She gestures at her laptop. “I have to finish this little bit, and then test it out, and if it works, then I’m going to put it into production and seal off the QC network.”

“Put it into production?” Oliver echoes. “You mean install it at QC?”

“It’ll be untraceable,” she interrupts stubbornly. “We need to make sure the company is protected, and I _know_  Wladkowski can’t do it, so I will. And it’ll just appear without anyone being able to backtrace it, so then we can--”

“Will Cooper know?” Oliver interjects, his tone hard.

Felicity blinks. “What do you mean?”

“If you drop this perfect, untraceable... _program_ into the company systems, and that program locks him out, will he know it’s you?”

She shrugs, shifting a bit. “We don’t even know for certain it’s Cooper.”

“Felicity.”

“Well, I can’t say for sure whether he’d know,” she answers, her tone defensive. “He knows I’m way better than him, and we used to code together, so he might figure it out--”

“Then no,” Oliver says, and suddenly he’s standing and walking towards the door.

“Excuse me?” Felicity gently shifts the laptop to the coffee table, then jumps up to barrel after him. “Did you just say _no_?”

Oliver turns back, eyes blazing with what Felicity feels is unjustified anger. “Yes, I said no. It’s too dangerous. If this is Cooper, if he’s coming after the company to come after _you_ , specifically, if he really was outside the building yesterday, it’s far too dangerous to engage.”

“ _Engage_?” Felicity echos. Loudly. “I’ve been working on this for two days because, _regardless_  of who’s on the other end of this hack, it needs to be stopped. As soon as possible. And my code?” she continues, warming to her theme and stepping right up into his personal space. “My code will follow him home and delete whatever he stole. It’s the only way to keep QC safe!”

“And what about you?” Oliver yells. “How do I keep _you_  safe while you’re out there poking the bear?”

“Cooper’s not a _bear_ ,” she scoffs. “And this is something that needs doing, and I’m the person who can do it. Probably,” she continues, even louder because Oliver keeps trying to interrupt her, “the _only_  person who can do it. So I’m going to do it.”

“No, you are not,” he shouts right back.

Before she can retort, there’s a sharp knock before the bedroom door opens and Diggle peeks in. When he sees them standing in the middle of the room arguing, he sighs in relief and steps in. “Oliver, you have a meeting at the office in 35 minutes.”

“It can wait,” Oliver argues, turning back to Felicity.

“No, it can’t,” she counters, taking hold of his arm and trying to turn him towards the door. He doesn’t budge, simply arching an eyebrow at her. “Would you just _l_ _et me fix this_?” she explodes, dropping her grip on him and putting her hands on her hips. “It’s _my_  ex-boyfriend using  _my_  code to attack your company, and you _know_  I’m the only person who can fix it, and even more than that, I’m the one who _should_  fix it, because it’s  _my_ \--”

“It’s not your fault!” Oliver repeats. Loudly. While throwing his arms in the air in exasperation.

Diggle moves closer. “Felicity, Cooper’s decisions are his own.”

“Right,” she agrees, “but he did this -- and he chose QC -- because of me.” She reaches out and takes Diggle’s hand, because she knows she can bring him around. “I _need_  to fix this.”

John studies her for a long moment, then sighs. “We don’t know his mental state, Felicity. If he figures out it’s you on the other end of the,” he grimaces at his metaphor, “computer, this could refocus him on you.”

“Are you seriously considering letting her do this?” Oliver interjects.

“I’m not sure,” Felicity argues, letting go of Diggle and rounding on Oliver, “where you got the idea you could _let_  me do or not do something, but you are _sorely_  mistaken. If this _tactic_  isn’t working anymore,” she snipes, ignoring the way Oliver flinches at her words, “I’m happy to take my stuff back to my house and just do all this from there. I have better processing power anyway,” she adds in an undertone.

Oliver looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “It’s dangerous,” he says, glancing at Diggle before meeting Felicity’s gaze again. He’s calmer, now, but his walls are back up. There’s no trace of the warmth she’d seen earlier -- he’s shifted into fierce protector mode, which is honestly her least favorite Oliver. He’s unreasonable and overbearing and at least a little bit sexist. “I can’t stop you from doing this, Felicity, but I don’t want him fixating on you. We don’t know enough about who he is now, and what his intentions are.”

“I know,” she answers, doing her best to match his icy calm. “I understand the risks, and they’re mine to take.” She looks over to Diggle, but he’s just watching them, his mouth set in a grim line. “No objections from you?” she asks.

He gives her an irritable look, but shakes his head. “You’re as stubborn as he is,” Diggle says, “and just as hard to talk out of an idea, no matter how bad.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” she protests. “It’ll solve the hacking problem!”

“And put you at risk,” Oliver points out.

Felicity shakes her head, thinking about Cooper, about how they’d been together, about signs that she can recognize now, looking back, of this aspect of his personality. “I don’t think he’ll hurt me,” she says. “He was never violent. But he didn’t like that I was smarter than him. If Cooper really is a part of this, I think it's more about that -- showing me he's just as smart as me.”

Oliver and Diggle exchange looks, and then Oliver sighs. “I don’t like this.”

“I know,” Felicity tells him, moving closer to try to usher him and Diggle towards the door. She grabs Oliver’s suit jacket from the arm of the chair. “But you have somewhere to be right now, and I need to concentrate.”

Diggle moves out into the hallway, and Oliver follows slowly. He turns back, accepting the suit jacket she shoves into his hands. “Can you at least wait until we get back?”

Felicity considers his request, but she knows how she is when she gets in a groove. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take,” she answers truthfully. “But I need to do it when I’m in the zone, so...” She shrugs.

Oliver stands there, watching her with an unreadable look, for a long, charged moment. “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” he tells her, his words clipped. Then he turns and stalks off.

“Don’t worry,” Felicity calls after him. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Beside her, Diggle sighs. “I wish you hadn’t said that,” he grumbles, then squeezes her shoulder before turning to follow Oliver.

“It will be,” Felicity tells herself, ignoring the small niggling doubts. “Everything will be fine.”

 

& & &

 

It’s during Oliver’s third hour at the office, while he’s finally starting to make progress on his ridiculously full inbox, that Isabel strides in.

She’s in another of her perfectly tailored dresses, this one a sedate navy that hugs her body. Her hair is perfectly styled, and her steps measured and confident in her high-end high-heeled shoes. “Oliver,” she greets, breezily ignoring Diggle’s presence on the couch, “I must say I’m surprised you bothered to show up today.”

Oliver’s grip tightens on his pen, but he makes himself place it gently onto the desk. “Isabel.” He glances over to Dig, who rolls his eyes behind Isabel’s back, then straightens his paper with a snap and goes back to reading.

When Oliver turns his attention back to Isabel, she is marching right around his desk, invading his personal space. Oliver shoots to his feet and takes an instinctive step back, which makes her pause and smirk up at him. “Am I really so scary?” she asks, and if he didn’t know her well enough to recognize her simmering irritation, he’d describe her tone as playful.

He watches her warily, and he can see that Diggle is on his feet, too, paper forgotten, watching _whatever_  this is like a hawk. “What are you doing?” Oliver demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I was planning to offer my congratulations on your abrupt nuptials,” she answers sweetly. Then she steps forward, placing one hand on his shoulder for balance as she leans up. He pointedly turns his head, and she presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment before easing back. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he answers automatically. He shifts his weight to his back foot and drops his arms so that her hand falls away from him. “Felicity and I are very happy,” he tells her. “I’m very happy with her,” he adds, putting _just_  enough emphasis on the final word to draw the distinction between his relationship with Felicity now and his tryst with Isabel months ago.

“I’m sure you are,” Isabel retorts, her tone souring, “considering you’ve been panting after her for months.”

Oliver doesn’t dignify that with a response, simply arching an eyebrow at her, wondering if she remembers that he’d moaned Felicity’s name in Russia. Isabel hadn’t reacted at the time, or referenced it later, and since it had happened at a moment when they were both rather... _distracted_ , he’d wondered if she’d even registered it. But from the slight flush of her cheeks right now, he thinks maybe she _did_  hear him. And maybe she _does_  resent it. Maybe that explains the strange personal animus she seems to have for him.

There’s some space between them now, but she’s still stubbornly standing on the wrong side of his desk. And by the way she crosses her arms and leans her weight against the sideboard, Isabel apparently has no intentions of backing off.

He doesn’t know what she’s playing at, but he knows for sure she’s needling him for a specific purpose. He’d been _so sure_  Isabel had played some role in the hack -- or at least in publicly exploiting it to make him seem ineffectual and further her goal to take over the company. But if Cooper Seldon is behind this, and he’s chosen QC because of Felicity, Oliver can’t make the pieces fit in a logical way.

But even if he can’t quite figure out how Cooper Seldon and Isabel Rochev could be in league together, he knows Isabel would cheerfully throw him over a metaphorical cliff if it meant getting control of QC.

“Did you need something else?” Oliver asks, more than a little impatience in his tone. Because _he_  needs to finish handling the urgent matters in his inbox so that he can get back home to Felicity.

He stiffens at the thought of going _home to Felicity_. He’s struck by the memory of her last night, sprawled asleep half on her laptop, wearing the cutest pajamas he’s ever seen, and mumbling something about strawberry pie when he’d carried her small, warm form to bed. The feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her body pressed against his, the feel of her breath on his chest when she’d nuzzled her face against him -- all of it had seriously weakened his resolve.

Because he can’t lie to himself about this anymore -- he _wants_  that for real. With Felicity.

He wants her beside him. He wants to share a bed with her. He wants to learn her body and let her amazing mind continue to amaze him, day after day.

But these are dangerous thoughts, a seductive fantasy that he can’t let himself dwell on -- not right now. Not when there’s a crisis in need of solving.

“No,” Isabel answers belatedly, and his attention snaps back to her. She’s studying him with that cool half-smile and every so slightly narrowed eyes. “I was just curious,” she tells him.

“Curious about what?” he asks, expecting a cruel remark about Felicity, or a cutting reference to their quick, coldly satisfying time in Russia.

But Isabel surprises him when she says, “How similar you are to your father, now that you’re married.”

He doesn’t miss the sarcastic tone she strikes when she says “married” -- it lends a judgmental and _knowing_ kind of undertone to the strange remark. He’s not sure whether she actually would’ve tried to kiss him earlier if he hadn’t turned his head, but that overly familiar moment in conjunction with this comment? He can only assume she’s referencing his father’s cheating.

Oliver knows his father wasn’t faithful to his mother, but it’s strange for Isabel -- a business partner -- to reference Oliver’s dead father’s infidelities. Or to know about them in the first place. Oliver frowns at Isabel. “What do you mean?”

But before she can answer, a slightly disheveled man appears in the doorway to Oliver’s office with a broad, overtired kind of smile. “We fixed it!” he announces.

Oliver blinks. “Who are you?” he asks, because he’s lost without Felicity prompting him.

Beside him, Isabel sighs in clear irritation. “This is Dick Wladkowski,” she tells him, her tone waspish. “The head of the IT department.”

And, Oliver thinks, the man Felicity doesn’t think can code his way out of a wet paper bag. His stomach knots as he starts to process what that means. “You mean the attack on QC has been successfully blocked?” he demands, slipping past Isabel to round the desk and approach Wladkowski. “It’s over?”

He’s a very tall man, and quite thin, with a stubborn shock of light brown hair and a pale cast to his skin. “Yes,” he answers, but his tone is less certain now that Oliver is striding towards him. “The measures we’ve been taking over the past 36 hours have resolved the issue,” he says, and it’s so unconvincing that Oliver can’t help but glance over at Diggle.

Diggle nods in acknowledgement and strides out of the room, already bringing his phone to his ear to call Felicity and confirm she’d deployed her code.

“Have you identified whoever is behind the attack?” Isabel asks, appearing at Oliver’s side. She keeps her expectant gaze on Wladkowski, who shakes his head.

“Still working through the forensics,” he tells them. “The security team we’ve hired is working with the FBI on that piece, but the immediate concern has been addressed. And,” he adds, shifting a little uncomfortably, “we have reason to believe that any information that was stolen has been deleted from the perpetrator’s systems.”

Isabel’s eyes narrow. “Sounds like your team created fairly complex countermeasures,” she observes, a thread of skepticism in her words.

Oliver can tell she’s suspicious that Felicity was involved, and moves to head off that discussion. “What about Snowfinch?” he asks, and if he weren’t paying careful attention, he might’ve missed Isabel’s flinch. _She knows something_. Goddamnit, she _is_  involved in this.

He’d been sure she was simply taking advantage of the market uncertainty to push her agenda and increase her stake in QC, but either she has sources inside the investigation or she was involved in the hack. He swallows down his anger, because as much as he’d like to persuade her to share what she knows with the class, he needs leverage before he reveals his hand.

For his part, Wladkowski just blinks. “Snowfinch?” he echoes blankly. “I don’t... know what that is? Is it a project we’re hoping wasn’t leaked, or--?”

“No,” Oliver interrupts. He paces a few steps away and turns back so he can see both Wladkowski and Isabel full on for this next part. “Snowfinch is the code name of someone the hacker might have been working with,” he explains. Isabel has a pretty good poker face -- she stares back at him with wide, curious eyes. “Most likely someone on the inside here at QC.”

Wladkowski sucks in a breath. “Oh, crap, we have a mole?”

Isabel quirks an eyebrow at Oliver. “The FBI shared this information with you?” she asks, skepticism clear in her voice. “When? During your interrogation?”

Oliver can’t tell whether she believes he stole information from the FBI, or whether she assumes Felicity’s supposed involvement somehow revealed that codename. Though if Isabel _is_  involved, then she knows Felicity’s not. “They were interviewing me,” he counters, “as a potential witness. But since my wife his nothing to do with this hack, it was unnecessary. I’d be more than happy to testify against the actual mole.”

“Wait -- you’re married?” Wladkowski asks, brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Isabel answers with false enthusiasm, “Oliver married his secretary the day before yesterday--”

“Executive assistant.”

“--and we’re just all going to ignore his unprofessionalism for both marrying his secretary--”

“ _Executive assistant_.”

“-- _and_  disappearing in the middle of a crisis despite being the CEO of this company.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Oliver objects angrily, even as Wladkowski mutters, “Geez, what else did I miss?”

“So the attack has been handled,” Isabel sums up, turning on her heel to face Oliver fully. “I guess we’ll leave you to your honeymoon.” Before he can protest, she indicates Wladkowski should accompany her, and stalks out, telling the IT director to have a full report on their desks in two hours.

Oliver sighs irritably, though he’s not sorry to see her go. As the elevator doors close behind Isabel and Wladkowski, Oliver sets off in search of Dig, slipping his phone out to check for texts or missed calls -- he has just one text from Felicity, and it’s a string of emojis that makes no actual sense to him. There’s a tiny champagne bottle, a padlock, a computer, and -- he squints at the screen. “Is that a _castle_?”

Before he can get frustrated, Diggle reappears from the far corridor with a concerned look on his face.

“We need to go,” Diggle announces.

“What happened?” Oliver demands, not giving a second thought to the unfinished work on his desk.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Diggle asks, pressing the call button for the executive elevator.

“Dig,” he grits out, because his imagination has supplied at least fifteen nightmarish scenarios involving Felicity, and he’s just barely getting started. He slips past Dig and jabs the button for the parking garage.

“Felicity hacked the hackers and shored up QC’s security, not Wladkowski,” Diggle explains, half-turning to face Oliver more directly. His expression is guarded and his body language tense, which is enough to warn Oliver to brace for what’s coming. “She said she was mid-victory dance when Jean called--”

“Fuck.”

“--with news that the FBI has sworn a warrant for Felicity’s arrest.”

“ _Fuck_!” Oliver hauls off and punches the wall of the elevator hard enough to crack the wood paneling and bruise his knuckles. The pain barely registers; his mind is cycling between images of Felicity in handcuffs, the thought of Felicity unprotected in jail, and pure rage that after everything, he still can’t do one single thing about what’s coming. “What is the FBI thinking? She didn’t _do_ this!”

“I know, man.” John lands a calming hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “We’ll figure this out.”

“We’ll _figure it out_?” Oliver shouts. “They’re going to _arrest_  her!” He turns away, bringing his hands up to his face and trying to pull himself together. He breathes slowly, in for five, out for five, but it doesn’t affect his elevated pulse or general anxiety. The ding of the elevator announcing their arrival on the ground floor snaps Oliver back into action, and he and Diggle double time it to the car.

The trip back to the mansion takes nearly twenty minutes, so as soon as they emerge from the underground garage, Oliver calls Felicity.

“Hi,” she answers, and she almost sounds normal, but there’s a certain thin quality to her voice that makes his fists clench with the need to protect her. “I’m not panicking.”

“Felicity--”

“I’m not,” she insists, talking even faster than usual. “Just because I’m not going to do well in prison doesn’t mean I can’t take it. I mean, well, it kind of _does_  mean that, but I refuse to panic. Panic never helps anything, so I’m just… not gonna do that. It’ll be fine. I’ll just stock up on chocolate and cigarettes and nylons. Or, no, that’s WWII. What’s prison currency? Cigarettes and what? Oh, my God, am I going to have to join a girl gang?”

“Felicity, take a breath. We’ll be there in ten minutes,” he tells her, ignoring Diggle’s incredulous look. “Tell me what Jean said.”

“She’s coming here,” Felicity answers, moderately more calm. “And then she and I will head down to the U.S. Marshals office to surrender.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I get there, okay? Felicity, promise me,” Oliver demands.

“Yeah,” she answers distractedly, and the fact that she didn’t argue with him bossing her around concerns him. “Listen, I need to tell you what I found on the hack.”

Of _course_  she wants to talk about that right now. Oliver grimaces. “That’s not important, Felicity, we--”

“It _is_ important,” she argues, and the spark of anger he hears in her voice is both frustrating, because he doesn’t really think he’s done anything to warrant it, and heartening, because his Felicity is a fighter. He knows her loud voice means she’s working her way through the shock of the situation and is moving on to _how to fix things_. “Figuring out who’s actually behind this is the only way for me to avoid a permanent orange jumpsuit. I look _terrible_  in orange, Oliver!”

“You’re always beautiful, Felicity,” he answers, then flinches when he hears a soft choking sound from her. “And,” he continues quickly, feeling a flush across the back of his neck, “we’re going to figure it out and keep you out of jail. I promise. But we don’t need to get into--”

“ _Yes_ , we _do_ ,” she interrupts. “I told you I’d follow the hacker home, right?”

Oliver straightens in his seat, intensely focused. “Do you have a location.”

“Well, no,” she admits, “not yet. But I did get a ton of information, including a bit more on this Snowfinch character.”

“It’s Isabel,” Oliver tells her. He’s not 100% sure, but there’s enough smoke there for him to expect the raging inferno.

“You know,” Felicity says, sounding more than a little annoyed, “I had a whole logical build up to that reveal, Oliver. You didn’t have to step all over it.”

Despite everything, he huffs a half-laugh. This is the unreasonable effect Felicity has on him -- she can lighten him, even when he’s at his most anxious and angry. He doesn’t understand the power she has over him, the way he reacts to her, but he’s pretty sure that means she should be _it_  for him.

“Sorry,” he tells her.

“Jean’s here,” Felicity announces, sounding distracted. “I need to--”

“Felicity, _wait_.”

“We won’t leave without you, Oliver, I promise. But I need to talk to Jean.” Felicity’s voice is shaky again.

“Okay, I’ll be there really soon, Felicity.”

“Okay. Bye, Oliver.”

Oliver closes his eyes when the line disconnects, taking a big breath to calm his nerves. Then he leans forward and meets Diggle’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Drive _faster_.”

 

& & &

 

By the time Oliver and Diggle come barrelling into the large sitting room at the Queen mansion, Felicity is carefully dressed, perfectly coiffed, and perched on the edge of the couch shaking with nerves. Because Jean’s been explaining a whole lot of stuff that basically all amounts to the fact that she’s going to be arrested in less than an hour.

 _Arrested_.

It’s really all her mind can keep hold of, despite the fact that Jean has very calmly and clearly walked her through the steps several times already. In fifteen minutes, they’re all going to drive the U.S. Marshals office so that Felicity can surrender herself into custody.

_Custody._

Which is a fancy word for _jail_.

“Oh, God, I’m going to jail,” she mutters, turning panicky eyes to Oliver as he reaches her side.

“Felicity.” He hauls her to her feet and pulls her right into his arms. In another circumstance, she might think that strange, or assume it’s part of their stupid _tactic_. But right now she is scared out of her mind and trying to be brave, and being embraced by his careful strength lets her take the first real breath she’s managed since Jean’s call nearly an hour ago.

Felicity sinks into his chest, wrapping her arms tight around his waist and digging her fingers in a little desperately. She presses her forehead against his collarbone and just breathes him in. He’s murmuring nonsensical, soothing kinds of sounds, and for just a minute, she lets herself _need_  him.

Then she takes a breath and pulls back, offering Oliver a quick, shaky smile before turning to find Diggle waiting his turn. “John,” she says, and then his even _bigger_  arms loop around her.

Dig rocks her back and forth twice before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We’re going to handle this, okay?” he tells her.

Felicity nods, reaching out blindly for Oliver’s hand. She freezes when she realizes what she’s done, but Oliver just tangles their fingers together, moves closer, and pulls her down beside him onto the couch. “What’s the plan?” Oliver asks, as Diggle settles on the arm of the couch beside Felicity. She doesn’t miss the fact that her boys are flanking her, aligning themselves with her -- their loyalty and protectiveness is a warm balm to counteract the hollow pit of fear in her stomach.

Jean interjects from her place in the armchair across the low coffee table from them. “Oliver, Mr. Diggle, it’s good to see you again, despite the circumstances.”

“How do we get this warrant thrown out?” Oliver asks, ignoring pleasantries as usual. He’s being very gentle with Felicity, but she can feel the tension coiled in his frame. It won’t take much to push his patience past the limits.

Felicity answers his question so Jean doesn’t have to. “We can’t,” she tells him. He’s shaking his head stubbornly, but she squeezes his hand to get him to listen. “We _can’t_. There’s a warrant, and that means they arrest me, or I become a fugitive, which is not an option. So we fight the case they bring against me. We fight in court.”

Oliver shifts his attention to Jean, and his tone is decidedly frosty when he demands, “There has to be another way.”

Jean is seated calmly in the armchair, hands folded together in her lap. “This is how the justice system works, Oliver. The FBI and the federal prosecutor feel they have enough for an arrest. I’m less convinced,” she adds acerbically, “but unfortunately, we don’t have an actual say in whether the government brings charges. I should point out that they _are_  doing us the courtesy of allowing Felicity to surrender herself. They could’ve sent a dozen SUVs with lights flashing over her to haul Felicity out in handcuffs.”

“That would’ve really sucked.” Felicity gives a shaky laugh, and Diggle’s warm palm lands on her shoulder to lend her support.  

“They’re still _arresting_  her,” Oliver points out, sounding not at all impressed by Jean’s explanation of just how much worse this could’ve been.

“Yes, they are,” Jean agrees. She gives Felicity a sympathetic look, then adds, “Felicity will be fingerprinted, photographed, and put in a holding cell until her arraignment, which probably won’t happen until tomorrow.”

Oliver sucks in a breath, tightening his hold on Felicity’s hand. “She could be held _overnight_?”

“Oliver,” Jean answers levelly, “she may be held until trial.” Felicity goes icy cold all over, just like she did the first time Jean had mentioned _that_  particular possibility. Predictably, Oliver erupts in a sputtering protest, but Jean holds up one hand. “That is highly unlikely, unless the judge decides she’s too much of a flight risk. I’m just providing context -- one night in jail would be a pretty good outcome, considering the possibilities.”

When Oliver glances up at Diggle, then looks speculatively at Felicity, she knows exactly what he’s thinking. The predictable _idiot_. “Jean,” Felicity says quietly, “do you mind if I talk to my husband for a moment?”

“Not at all.” Jean pushes upright, checking her watch. “But we need to leave in ten minutes.”

Felicity holds her tongue until Jean pulls the door shut behind her, then turns on Oliver. “The Arrow is _not_  breaking me out of federal custody, so just put that thought away right now.”

Oliver attempts his best innocent expression, the one that hasn’t worked on her once in the year-plus that they’ve known each other. “I wasn’t--”

“You think I don’t know your _bad idea_  face when I see it, Oliver?” she interrupts. She pokes his chest for emphasis as she adds, “I am not going to have you orchestrate a jail break that results in me having to _live in the lair_  or something. Do you know how damp it is down there?”

“Felicity--”

“Listen,” she says, turning to bring Diggle more directly into the conversation, “we need to talk about the hack. It can’t be both Isabel and Cooper, right? How would a businesswoman who’s spent a lot of time in Russia randomly meet up with a guy who’s spent the last four years working for some secret governmental agency. Oh, my God.” Felicity straightens up. “Is she a _Russian spy_?”

Oliver shakes his head. “She’s not a spy. She’s not good enough to be a spy,” he answers flatly. Felicity and Diggle exchange puzzled looks, but Oliver grimaces and continues, “She’s a predatory corporate raider, looking for a way to beat me out for CEO.”

“She wants control of QC,” Diggle agrees. “That’s been her plan from day one, and while she may say she’s fine being an SVP instead of the CEO, I think we’ve all met people like her before.”

“Ruthlessly ambitious people,” Felicity agrees. “Willing to do anything to get an edge.” She frowns. “Or anyone.” Oliver stiffens beside her, and she turns to examine the wary look on his face. “In Russia, when--”

“ _Felicity_ , we are not talking about that,” he interrupts loudly, a distinctive flush in his cheeks. “We need to focus on--”

“ _No_ ,” she argues. Not because she wants to talk (or ever _think_ ) about Oliver sleeping with Isabel in Russia, but because it might actually be pertinent. She tries to explain: “We convinced ourselves this was Cooper -- that he had access to the virus because of me, and that he picked the target because of me, but what if we’re wrong?”

Diggle frowns. “Did you find anything that makes you doubt Cooper’s involvement? We convinced ourselves because the information we had was pretty convincing,” he points out.

Felicity considers that. “I didn’t find anything that rules him out, no. It seems like the person or group responsible for the actual hack is called Brother Eye, but I haven’t had time to dig on the dark web for any information on who or what that is. But guys, the Snowfinch emails?”

Oliver nods once. “What about them?”

“They were sent from my workstation’s IP address,” Felicity explains. “But the last two, at least, were sent on days that I was in Central City with Barry.”

“So someone planted a trail intended it to lead the authorities to you,” Oliver says. “Which it has. God _damn_ it.”

“Oliver, focus,” she chides. “I haven’t pulled elevator footage or login info yet to link Isabel to these emails, but you _know_ she’s always disliked me.” Felicity grimaces. “A feeling which is very mutual. Anyway, Isabel may find me irritating, but she’s also had it out for you. _Most_  of the time, anyway.” She mutters that last part.

“Felicity,” Oliver protests, “I really don’t think--”

“Would you let me finish?” Felicity demands irritably. “We don’t have a lot of time before I have to head off _to prison_ , so just hear me out.”

Oliver’s frustration disappears, and he reaches for her hand again, squeezing it gently with his. He’s watching her with such worry and support and warmth that anyone looking in from the outside would believe he actually _did_ love her, and it makes Felicity wonder when he started being able to fool her with his terrible cover stories.

Kind of distracting thought, but Felicity shakes it off. “If Isabel is Snowfinch, she’s not just taking advantage of an opportunity to shake some more stock loose and gain control of the company. If she’s Snowfinch, she’s part of the actual attack on the company. Does Isabel want QC so badly that she’s willing to destabilize the company to get it? That seems less strategic and more…” Felicity shrugs, wrinkling her nose as she tries to come up with the right word. “Vengeful, maybe? Which suggests a more personal motive. Is she targeting _you_  because of something that happened...” Felicity trails off, feeling her cheeks flush. “You know,” she finishes lamely.

“Nothing happened,” Oliver grits. Off of her _very_  judgmental look, he clenches his jaw tighter, but adds, “Nothing happened that would make her so angry with me that she decided to steal the company _from me_.” He sounds certain, but he’s also having trouble holding her gaze, which is troubling.

Felicity sighs, frustrated. “Then I don’t get it.” She looks to Dig, who seems to be puzzling something out. Felicity taps his knee. “What?”

“Earlier today,” Diggle answers slowly, turning his attention to Oliver. “Isabel mentioned your father.”

Felicity frowns, glancing between the two men. “In what context?” Oliver’s jaw drops and his body hunches forward almost protectively. He lets go of her so he can bring his hands up to his face. “Oliver? What’s wrong?”

But it’s Diggle that speaks. “Oliver, man, I’m sorry to have to ask this, but is it possible that Isabel...” he pauses with a grimace, “ _knew_  your father?”

“Knew as in--?” Felicity’s eyes go wide with the realization. “Oh. _Ew._ ” She sucks in a breath, feeling both vaguely nauseated and concerned for Oliver. Who looks kinda sweaty -- and not in a _good_  way -- when he pulls his shaking hands away from his face. “Oliver?” she prompts.

Oliver swallows. “I don’t know.” He closes his eyes tightly, shaking his head just a bit.

“Oliver,” Felicity begins, instinctively shifting closer to try to comfort him, “it’s--

There’s a sharp knock on the door, and then Jean leans in. “It’s time.”

And just like that, Oliver is out of his own head and fully refocused on Felicity. Which is a good thing, because now that it’s actually time to go _get arrested_ , her determination and courage are failing her.

“Okay,” she says, her voice barely audible.

“We’ve got you,” Oliver tells her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and helping her stand. Diggle moves to her other side as they move to meet Jean at the door.

They all pile into the towncar, Diggle driving and Jean up front, while Oliver hauls Felicity close to his side in the back. She inches closer and turns into him, resting her cheek on his chest and letting her hand drop to his knee. Oliver doesn’t speak, just rubs slow, soothing circles on her back.

The drive takes nearly a half hour, but Felicity is so caught up in her fear and panic that it seems like they just turned out of the mansion’s long driveway.

Jean glances back. “No press,” she observes.

“What does that mean?” Oliver asks.

“I’m not sure,” Jean admits. “But if I had to guess I'd say they're not confident enough in their evidence to take the victory lap yet. Which makes me wonder why they'd make the arrest at all -- it wouldn’t surprise me to learn this is an attempt to pressure you into a deal, Felicity.”

“She didn’t _do_  anything,” Oliver growls.

Felicity shushes him. “Jean’s not the enemy, Oliver.”

“I know,” he admits, sounding slight chastened, though he doesn’t actually apologize.

Diggle brings the towncar to a stop and turns off the engine, leaving them all in a sudden silence. Diggle quirks an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror. “You think I’m letting you face this alone?”

She manages a wobbly smile and mouths, “Thank you.”

Then they’re moving -- Jean and Diggle exit the car first, and then Oliver’s sliding away from her and reaching back to offer her a hand out of the car. She accepts, because there’s a very real possibility she will fall down -- everything feels surreal, and her body is trembling with nerves. She makes it to her feet, letting herself lean into Oliver’s solid strength when he puts his arm back around her.

The U.S. Marshals office is in a nondescript old-ish office building, and Felicity focuses on Jean’s no nonsense navy blue heels and follows her lawyer inside. She and Oliver and Diggle stand in an awkward little circle in the small waiting area while Jean has a conversation with the guard working the desk.

She can feel the panic drawing tighter and tighter in her chest, and she reaches her hand out for Diggle. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

Oliver leans closer, his body warming her entire left side, which is just as effective as Diggle’s heartbeat trick in terms of calming her down when she’s on the cusp of a panic attack. Oliver kisses her temple. “You’re the bravest person I know,” he murmurs.

“I don’t feel brave,” she admits.

Diggle squeezes her hand and smiles at her. “You are. Just remember to breathe,” he reminds her.

“Felicity?” Jean prompts, and when Felicity looks over, she sees a tall, affable-looking man in a not-very-well-fitted suit standing beside her lawyer. “This is Special Agent Rollins.”

“Mrs. Queen,” he acknowledges, then nods at Oliver. “Mr. Queen.”

Oliver is as tense as a wooden board all of a sudden, and he offers only a grunt in response. Belatedly, Felicity says, “Hi.” Then she glances up at Oliver. “So I guess I need to go.” She goes to step forward, then falters momentarily. “Wait, I need my phone. Oh. No. I don’t.” She grabs a handful of Oliver’s shirt. “Oliver, will you--?”

“I’ll keep your phone for you,” he promises, and the look in his eyes is _so_  empathetic and supportive that Felicity has trouble holding his gaze.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Remember,” Jean says, “you do not speak to the agents without me in the room.”

Felicity nods, nervously chewing on her lip. “Right.”

Diggle squeezes her shoulder. “We’ll be here as soon as you get released, Felicity.”

She gives him a watery smile. “Thanks, John.” She turns to Oliver, tears standing in her eyes and anxiety fluttering in her chest. She lifts her chin. “I’ll see you later.”

“Felicity.” The expression on Oliver’s face is heartbreaking; he’s feeling helpless and angry, and she wishes she could make this better for him, somehow. Because no matter what he thinks, this isn’t his fault. Then he lifts his hands to her face, cupping her jaw and tilting her head back a bit. Instinctively, her hands come up and wrap around his wrists as she watches him, puzzled.

And then he kisses her.

It’s nothing like their previous kisses -- there’s no unexpected passion or happy flirtation. Instead, this kiss is soft and chaste and lingering, and it feels... _real_.

Oliver eases back and they breathe each other in for a moment, before he kisses her again briefly.

When he straightens, she realizes she’s gripping his forearms too tightly and lets go. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oliver lets his palms graze down her neck and places his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he tells her quietly.

Scared but determined and a little bit confused, Felicity nods. Then she straightens her spine and turns to Agent Rollins, who escorts her around the desk, through an alarmed, key card-protected door, and into a small, harshly lit room. Felicity is handed off to a female guard, who monitors Felicity as she strips out of smart blue dress and her panda flats, and redresses in drab olive  _prisoner_ garb. Still, Felicity holds it together, handing over her earrings and her ponytail holder without protest.

It's not until the guard gestures to Felicity's left hand that she realizes she needs to take off her wedding ring. Her wedding ring from her pretend marriage to Oliver that she's only had for two days. There's absolutely no reason that  _this_ should be the thing that makes her cry, but here she is cradling her left hand against her chest and sniffling as she tries to protest. "Can't I just keep this--?"

"Take it off," the guard orders, her expression flat and displaying no empathy at all. 

So Felicity pulls the ring off with a muffled sob and watches the guard seal it away with all the rest of her personal belongings. 

She may have tears streaming down her cheeks, but Felicity keeps her chin up as she's led down a long hallway lined with cells. The guard pauses in front of the second-to-last cell, unlocking it with an old school metal key. Felicity steps through on shaky knees, scanning the small cot, the plain metal toilet and sink, and the high window with thick metal bars covering it. When the door clanks shut behind her, she whirls back around, but the guard is already walking away.

“Frak,” she whispers. All of the insane things they’ve done, all of the ridiculous tactics, and she still ends up here.

Alone. In a jail cell.

 

END CHAPTER NINE

  



	10. Chapter 10

 

Nineteen hours.

Oliver watched Felicity disappear behind an alarmed door at the U.S. Marshals office just after 4 p.m., and he won’t see her again until her arraignment, which is tentatively scheduled for 11 tomorrow morning. She will spend at least _nineteen hours_  in federal custody.

Felicity, who is never more than five feet from her phone and at least one additional device, has been locked in a fucking _cell_ , cut off from everything, and left alone. The thought of her sitting on some awful industrial cot, trapped behind bars -- it enrages him. And he can’t stop imagining it.

He wonders how she’s coping. He wonders if she’s in a cell by herself and safe. He wonders if she’s talking softly to herself, keeping herself company.

Oliver is, to put it mildly, going fucking crazy.

Diggle tries to calm him down, to get him to focus on Isabel or Cooper or _something_ productive, but Oliver can’t manage it. And he is emphatically not in the mood to commiserate with his mother or his sister. He’s so caught up in his own worry and anger that he doesn’t even think about calling Donna Smoak until Diggle mentions in passing that he already talked to her.

“Dammit,” Oliver mutters, feeling the heavy weight of failure. “I should’ve called her.”

Diggle’s got his arms crossed and a disgruntled look on his face. “Why? She’s not _really_  your mother-in-law, right?”

“Dig,” Oliver warns, turning away.

“We should get this stuff to the foundry,” Diggle says. Oliver recognizes the suggestion for the temporary truce offer it is and accepts gratefully. Maybe he can get his mind off of Felicity -- at least a little -- if he’s focused on something else.

So Oliver and Diggle turn their attention to scrubbing the mansion of anything incriminating, in case the FBI sends agents out with a warrant. They gather up Felicity’s old, air-gapped laptop and her current favorite tablet -- the one she used to hack her own supervirus -- Oliver stuffs them into a duffel bag. He throws in an extra grey hoodie he finds in the back of his closet, plus a couple of gym towels, and hopes Felicity never learns details of how poorly he’s treating her babies.

Oliver avoids his mother and sister since he’s unable to come up with a reasonable excuse for leaving, and he and Diggle head for the foundry. Diggle fires up Felicity’s workstation while Oliver carefully unpacks the duffel bag and hands the electronics over to Diggle.

And then Oliver works the salmon ladder and trains with bo sticks while Diggle spends nearly two hours hunched over Felicity’s laptop trying to follow her hastily scrawled instructions on how to access and review the gigabytes of data her code had redirected to her carefully designed cloud-based storage -- whatever the fuck any of that means. But they really need _Felicity_  to do the complex programming that makes recognizing patterns or connections in all of this disorganized data feasible -- neither Oliver nor Diggle are smart enough with technology to do a damn useful thing without Felicity.

Turns out, Oliver is no good without her on _several_  levels.

Frustrated by their lack of progress, Diggle pushes back from Felicity’s workstation and tilts his head toward the mats. And if Oliver thought Diggle had dropped the subject of his feelings for Felicity earlier, boy, was he wrong.

It starts as soon as Oliver drops into a fighting stance. Dig feints an attack, but drops back and demands, “What’re you doing, man?”

“Kicking your ass,” Oliver snaps, lashing out with a quick one-two that Dig blocks easily. There’s anger and self-loathing roiling in his gut, and he knows none of this is Diggle’s fault, but Oliver is willing to take some of his frustrations out on his friend anyway.

“Trying,” Dig allows, circling. “And you know that’s not what I meant. What’re you doing with _Felicity_?”

Stung by the underlying accusation in Diggle’s question, Oliver nearly catches a punch full in the face, but reacts in time to make it a glancing blow to his jaw. “I’m trying to protect her. You _know_ that,” he grits out, before launching himself at his friend, low and quick. He gets under Dig’s defense and tackles him to the mats.

Dig lands with an _oof_ , then rolls away to his feet. “Touched a nerve?” he asks.

“No,” Oliver denies, back on his feet and circling. He keeps his eyes on Diggle’s center mass, his body loose and ready to take advantage of any opening. “But now is not the time to discuss this.”

Diggle rolls his eyes, but lets the subject drop as they continue to grapple. Dig advances quickly and Oliver darts left, whirling to avoid a direct hit, and then he’s on Diggle. Oliver lands a knee to the kidneys, and two punches around Dig’s ribs. He mostly pulled off, but left enough on them so Diggle will feel it tomorrow. Dig retaliates, using his superior bulk to hurl Oliver into the wall.

They continue to fight, expending some of their anxious energy, and several times they push past their normal training boundaries and really fight. Until finally Diggle straightens, one hand up to stay any further attacks, while he presses his free hand against his side. Dig ends up with a sore wrist and a bruised jaw, and Oliver walks off the mats with tender ribs and a knee that’s reminding him of old injuries.

Oliver is breathing hard and sweating profusely, but he doesn’t feel any better, just sore and a little more tired.

He towels the sweat from his torso, then slumps into the small, uncomfortable chair he uses when he’s working on arrows. Tenting the towel over his head, Oliver leans his elbows on his thighs and tries to pull himself together. If only he had something concrete he could _do_  to help Felicity, to move the needle on this bogus legal case against her, or round up whoever’s responsible -- be it Cooper Seldon, Isabel Rochev, or whoever else.

Diggle moves to the small cabinet in the corner and rustles around for something. It’s not until Oliver hears the scrape of the chair and the unmistakable clink of a bottle being placed on the tabletop that he pushes the towel aside and looks up.

Dig’s already got the bottle of whisky open, and he pours two fingers for each of them. Settling back against the worktable, he slides Oliver’s glass over to him. “To your wife,” Diggle offers.

Oliver makes a choked noise in reaction, because the thought of Felicity as his wife still leaves him breathless with a strange mixture of disbelief and longing. He leans over to clank his glass against Diggle’s. “Felicity,” he agrees, then takes a large sip, savoring the burn. He switches the glass to his left hand, overly cognizant of the clink of crystal against his wedding ring. Diggle’s watching him carefully, and Oliver sighs. “You clearly have something you want to say, John.” He gestures with his tumbler, indicating that Diggle has the floor.

Diggle nods once. “We should probably discuss the fact that you’re in love with your wife.”

Oliver wishes he could deny it; his current circumstances would be so much easier if Diggle were wrong. But he’s not. “This isn’t the time for this conversation,” Oliver protests instead. It’s even probably true -- they’re in the midst of a crisis, and the last thing he wants to do is take any focus off of the efforts to free Felicity and keep her safe.

“What better time will there be?” Diggle demands. “We’ve made no progress on whatever Brother Eye information she managed to pull, we can’t figure out how Isabel and Cooper could both be involved in this, and we have nothing else productive to do until Felicity’s hearing tomorrow. We’ve got nothing _but_  time right now.”

“What do you want me to say?” Oliver glares at his friend. He is _intimately_  aware of how fucked up this situation is, how precarious. He knows he’s far more likely than not to end up hurting Felicity, even though that’s the last thing he wants to do. He _knows_ , and he doesn’t really want to analyze all the ways he could lose her.

“Look, man,” Diggle says, his tone softer now -- more conversational that accusatory, “when you suggested this... _tactic_ ,” he pauses, quirking an eyebrow when Oliver winces at the reminder, “I was concerned, but I also know that all this? It’s crazy and you’re doing everything in the wrong order, but this is what you want.”

Oliver stiffens, shaking his head. “No. John, that’s not true.” He’s never wanted marriage, not ever. When he was young and selfish, he didn’t want to be tied down; now, he doesn’t want to anchor anyone to him. He wants Felicity, sure; he loves her. But Oliver understands that loving someone means wanting what’s best for them -- and he can’t possibly be what’s best for Felicity.

No matter how much he wants to be.

“It _is_  true.” Diggle pauses, taking a sip of his drink and ordering his thoughts. “Why do you think you spent so much time running after Laurel when you got back?”

“What?” Oliver shrugs, confused by the subject change. “What does Laurel have to do with this?” Other than to bolster Oliver’s belief that he is nothing but bad news for the people he loves.

“Not Laurel,” Diggle answers. “Not really. I’m talking about _you_  and how you saw her.” He waves off Oliver’s protests. “I’m not dismissing her importance to you, man. I know you loved her, and I know you were determined to make up for the shitty way you treated her before the island, but I don’t think any of that was the root of your obsession when you came back.”

“I was not obsessed,” Oliver mutters, but he remembers a dozen examples of him choosing Laurel above all else. The choices themselves could be defended, but his handling of everyone else in his life? More often than he should have, he’d let them and their concerns recede into the background to focus on Laurel.

“You were dying for something normal, Oliver, something real. _Something_ like the life you remembered.” Diggle shifts, and the table he’s leaning on skitters back a few inches with a screech. “Five years, and everything was different -- your mom was married to Walter, and your baby sister was all grown up with her own mind. You weren’t the same, either, but you still wanted what we all want.”

Oliver is just staring at Diggle now, feeling uncomfortably like his friend has laid some of his suppressed thoughts and feelings bare. “And what’s that?” he manages.

“Someone to love us for who we are.” Diggle takes another sip, just watching Oliver as his words linger in the air. “It’s the most natural thing in the world to want, and no matter how broken you thought you were, or how undeserving, you still wanted to love someone, and have them love you back. If you could do all that _and_  make it all up to Laurel at the same time? Even better. Of course you focused on her.”

All Oliver can manage is a hoarse noise of assent. He lifts his tumbler and takes a large gulp, letting the burn in his belly center him. Because he knows Diggle’s not done talking yet, and he’s already feeling pretty raw. He’s not sure how much more he can handle, but he trusts John enough to listen.

“Lyla and I met in the middle of a war,” Diggle says, his voice quieter, now. “We fell in love fighting a war together, and there’s nothing that shows someone’s essential character like mortal danger. Lyla knows me in a way no else ever has, and she loves _me_ , despite all my flaws.”

“She seems great,” Oliver offers. He hasn’t spent much time with Lyla since learning of her existence, but what he knows of her he likes quite a lot. She is smart, tough, brave, and, according to Dig’s stories, quite a badass. Diggle’s contentedness since Russia hasn’t escaped Oliver’s notice, either, and there’s at least some small part of him that envies his friend’s happiness.

“She is,” Diggle agrees with a soft smile. “I’ve loved other women, and they’ve loved me. I loved Carly, but for her, I was John and I was Andy’s brother. She never knew me for me, not the way Lyla does.”

Oliver nods slowly, letting Diggle’s point sink in. He thinks about the fundamental disconnect he’s had with Laurel since he came back, the unbridgeable distance with McKenna, and the way Felicity just seems to understands him. She always has, from the very first few conversations -- she anticipates him and comforts him and tempers his reactions. And the way she accepts him despite his many flaws -- thinking about that warms his chest more than the liquor. “So you’re saying Felicity is my Lyla?”

“I’m saying you want someone to see the man you’ve become and love you anyway,” Diggle answers. “And no other woman I’ve seen you with since you’ve been back -- and there have been quite a few,” he adds with a bit of a glare. “None of them knows _you_ , Oliver. Not like Felicity does.”

That, Oliver agrees with. “I know.” He looks down at the floor. He’s bad at these kinds of conversations, at expressing the roiling emotions in words. He takes a breath and tries to explain what, exactly, keeps holding him back from contemplating _more_  with Felicity. “I know she could be it for me, but...”

“But what, Oliver?”

His grip on the tumbler in his hand tightens. “She doesn’t deserve to be saddled with a man like me.”

“This again?” Diggle shoots back, clear disgust in his tone. “You don’t get to make that decision for her. You just try your hardest to be the man she deserves.”

It’s nothing Diggle hasn’t said before, nothing Oliver hasn’t _heard_  before, but for some reason tonight, it makes sense in a way it never has. Oliver frowns at his hands, absently twirling the wedding ring on his finger, trying to sort out what, exactly, has changed for him.

“You love her,” Diggle continues, “and she loves you. The last thing I want to see is both of you lose it all because of this fucking _tactic_  of yours.”

Oliver winces. “I’m doing my best.”

“That’s what worries me,” Diggle answers. The words are harsh, but his tone is not. “You and Felicity haven’t had a real conversation about this, but you’re kissing her like you mean it. You want to talk about what that woman deserves, Oliver? She _deserves_  to know the truth.”

Oliver’s cheeks heat, because he knows his friend is right. “I--” He stops, unsure how to defend himself from the truths Diggle keeps hurling at him. “There hasn’t been a lot of time.”

Diggle narrows his eyes. “Something you want to share about your wedding night, Oliver? ‘Cause you and she spent ten hours in a hotel room together.”

“We didn’t--” Oliver splutters, “It wasn’t-- Felicity was working all night. We were focused on the QC attack. That wasn’t the right time.” These are all true statements, but Oliver knows he could have pushed this conversation with Felicity at some point if he’d really wanted to; he hadn’t. He hasn’t been ready; he hasn’t even know what he’d want to say to her -- it’s still only starting to crystallize for him.

“And last night?” Dig presses.

“She was mad at me. And working.” The excuses sound even lamer when he voices them aloud.

Diggle stares at him expectantly. “And tomorrow, when she gets released?”

The reminder of where she is right now tightens his grip on his glass, and the thought of discussing this subject with her makes his stomach churn. But he can’t deny that Diggle is making sense -- he can feel himself getting used to her closeness, to her touch, to _kissing_  her like she’s his to kiss. “I’ll try to talk to her,” he allows. It’s not a very strong promise, but it seems to satisfy Diggle -- at least for now.

Dig tosses back the rest of his drink, then sets the tumbler on the table beside the bottle. “Don’t screw this up, man,” he says seriously. “That girl loves you, and I know you love her.”

Oliver wants _so badly_  to believe Diggle’s right, to believe that Felicity loves him the same way that, yes, he loves her. That she wants this with him. But even if she does, that doesn’t actually change the fact that he will never deserve her. “John...”

“Just think about it.” Diggle gestures around the lair. “You done here?”

Oliver shrugs, but tosses back the rest of his drink and follows Diggle back out to the car. They’re silent on the drive back to the mansion, Oliver lost in his thoughts -- a jumble of anger and fear over Felicity’s arrest and what might come next, and the fallout of his conversation with Diggle. It’s more than a little terrifying to think what could result from a conversation with Felicity about his feelings.

When they reach the mansion, Oliver murmurs thanks and heads inside. He changes immediately into sweats and heads out onto the grounds for a run. He’s hoping to exhaust himself enough to sleep later.

It doesn’t work. He goes to bed late and tosses and turns for hours, acutely feeling her absence. It makes _no_  goddamn sense that his bed feels strangely cold without Felicity, considering she’s only spent a single night there. But he found her clothes neatly folded alongside his in the bureau and her pajamas from yesterday crumpled into a pile on the countertop in the bathroom, and her bodywash and hair products in his shower, and he just _wants her here_.

He aches for her, and it makes the thought of her staying in jail, or going to prison _intolerable_. He knows that, no matter what he’d promised in the short term, he will not let her rot in jail. He’s lived off the grid before, and he will do it again and teach her how if it means she’s free.

More than anything, though, he wants her safe. That is priority number one. He will put aside these impossible feelings for her, and any desire to ask her to consider whether he’s someone she’s willing to take a chance on until she is free.

That’s all that matters in the end -- he will live the rest of his life with a broken heart if it means she’s happy and free and safe.

When he wakes up a little after six a.m., eyes gritty from lack of sleep and body protesting his and Diggle’s coping mechanisms from the night before, he is resolved in what comes next.

Handle Isabel and Cooper and whatever else is coming.

Handle the criminal case against Felicity.

And then, later, when they can all stop and take a breath -- then, he’ll see if his wife might be willing to agree to a date with him.

& & &

Felicity walks into the courtroom in yesterday’s dress, flanked by armed security officers. Like everything else that’s happened to her since yesterday afternoon, it feels surreal. Spending a night in a barred cell? Surreal. Peeing in the bolted-to-the-wall-toilet in that same barred cell, all hunched over in case a guard walks by? Creepily surreal. Being totally and completely cut off from the entire world outside of the chaos in her own head? Scary surreal.

By the time Jean arrives and another guard returns with Felicity’s belongings for her to get dressed for her hearing, it feels like she’s living in some sort of extended dream sequence. Her clothes feel decadent after a night with prison garb and rough, plastic-y sheets. Even the wedding ring she’d cried over last night feels strange on her finger when she slips it back on.

The courtroom itself is large and airy, all paneled wooden surfaces, official-looking seals, and brightly colored flags. There’s a large, empty jury box along the lefthand side, and a raised bench for judge up front. The prosecution and defense have big, burnished wooden tables in front of the gallery for family, onlookers, and the press. There are maybe a dozen rows of bench seating behind a dark wood banister -- and the gallery is full to bursting with whispering strangers and the press, clamoring for a decent shot of the most recently arrested member of the Queen family.

Felicity tries to project the calm, collected cool she’s seen on Moira Queen time and again -- unearthly poise in the face of, well, _anything_.

And, as if the thought of Moira Queen conjured her here, Felicity spots the Queen matriarch sitting in the front row of the gallery, calm and dignified in one of her impeccable suits. In fact, Moira Queen is in the front row between Thea and Oliver, and Felicity nearly stumbles to a stop when her gaze meets his. Oliver is a study in restrained tension; she can tell by the way his suit pulls at the shoulders that he’s sitting right at the edge of the bench and leaning forward. She tries to give him a reassuring smile.

On Oliver’s other side is Donna Smoak, in all of her flashy glory; beside her are Diggle and Lyla, who each offer her encouraging smiles. Felicity’s throat tightens as she takes in the sight -- they’re taking up nearly a whole row, her friends and family, and they’re all there for _her_.

She didn’t expect them to be here. It’s overwhelming, but it also helps jar her out of her strange, surreal fugue.

Reality crashes back into her, and she realizes how massively important the next half hour will be to her life. Her pulse speeds up, her hands curl into fists at her sides, and her gaze ping pongs around the room until it lands back on Oliver and gets stuck. He’s giving her that open, hopeful expression that she sees so rarely on him. And then he smiles at her, and something twisted and panicky in her chest loosens just a bit.

Jean steps into her line of vision, then, ushering Felicity to her seat at the defense table. There’s a brand new legal pad placed in front of Felicity in case she wants to take notes. Instead, she half-turns to Oliver, who reaches for her with one hand, but the distance is a little too much to bridge, so she gives him a finger wave and turns back around, standing as the judge arrives.

The formalities of court are foreign to Felicity, and she has trouble following exactly what’s happening and why. Which is okay, because Jean speaks for her, for the most part. Felicity sits silently at the defense table, acutely aware of how _full_  the courtroom is -- she can feel the weight of everyone’s attention as the proceedings continue.

And then Jean is urging her to her feet again. Felicity stands, staring wide-eyed at the judge, a no-nonsense woman with a shock of white in her rich brown hair.

“Miss Smoak?” Judge Salinas prompts. “Incidentally, I’m aware of your recent marriage, but we have nothing on file regarding a name change -- is that correct?”

Felicity glances at Jean before answering. “Uh, yes. Your Honor. That’s correct. Still Felicity Smoak. I mean,” she addes, hyper-aware of the Queen family very visibly backing her in this very courtroom, “I love the Queen name. Who wouldn’t want to be a Queen, right? I mean, the puns _alone_...” She flounders as the judge raises a hand for silence. “But, um, still Smoak,” Felicity finishes in a rush.

“Fine,” Judge Salinas says. “Miss Smoak, the charge being brought against you is theft of trade secrets under 18 U.S. code, section 1832. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes. Yup.” Her lungs aren’t working properly and she takes a gasping breath. “I mean, yes, Your Honor. I understand.”

“And how do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Felicity answers, her tone emphatic. She can feel a thousand clarifications and elaborations clamoring to get out, so she presses her lips together tightly.

It’s rather anticlimactic after that -- Jean and the prosecutor argue over whether Felicity should be released on bail, what bond would be appropriate, and what conditions should apply. Most of them are pretty routine -- no traveling outside the state, surrendering her passport, no possession of any firearms or contact with any felons. There’s a brief squabble over the prosecution’s request that the judge order Felicity not to use any electronics given the nature of the charged offense, and she can’t quite hide her panicked reaction. Can they _do_  that?

It turns out not to matter, because Jean is awesome and gets Felicity released with very few conditions on $5 million bail. Except that, even though Felicity doesn’t have to _produce_  the money and only has to promise to pay if she fails to show up to any court proceedings, five million dollars is _way_  more money than Felicity could possibly ever pay. So she slumps a little bit in her seat as the judge departs, fretting over the very high likelihood of spending the next six months or more in jail awaiting trial.

And then Oliver is calling her name, and Felicity twists around. He’s standing up against the hip-high barrier, leaning over it a little, and beckoning her closer. The expression on his face is something she hasn’t really seen before -- at least not directed at her. There’s a desperate kind of tension in gaze as he watches her, like he _needs_  her to move closer so he can prove to himself that she’s okay. Her stomach clenches as she wonders if something has happened -- did they find something in the data she’d recovered?

Swallowing down the panic, Felicity glances to Jean. “Can I?” she asks, tipping her head towards Oliver.

Jean nods. “Quickly. We need to start the paperwork for your release.”

Felicity blinks. “But--”

“ _Felicity_ ,” Oliver says. When she looks at him, he’s reaching for her. “Please?”

“Oh.” She pushes to her feet and steps closer, and then Oliver tugs her into an enthusiastic hug, pressing her flush against him. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, and for the first time in many, many hours, she is able to relax, just a bit, and melt into his strong embrace. Pressing her face into his chest, she savors his warm, solid bulk. “Hi,” she whispers, rubbing one hand along his back.

An impatient Donna Smoak makes her presence known, interrupting the small moment between Felicity and Oliver with a near-frantic, “Baby girl, are you okay?”

Oliver tightens his grip for a moment, then kisses Felicity’s temple and releases her with some reluctance.

She barely catches a glimpse of Oliver’s face before her mother has her in a flurry of a hug, rocking her a little, and bouncing a bit in her excitement. “You’re free, Felicity! Thank God.” Donna pulls back and reaches up, framing Felicity’s face with her hands. “Was it awful? Oh, it must have been awful.” Her mother feathers her thumbs along Felicity’s cheekbones. “You have sad little shadows under your eyes. Oh, my poor baby girl.”

Felicity flushes, reaching up and pulling her mother’s wrists. She holds her mother’s hands briefly. “I’m okay.”

Donna frowns. “But you--”

“I just need a shower,” Felicity interrupts. Borrowing Jean’s limited makeup arsenal and applying it in a cracked old mirror under industrial fluorescent light isn’t the most effective way of covering her many flaws, and she doesn’t need her mother’s rundown of how awful and jail-struck she looks.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Donna pulls her hands free, rummaging through her small but overpacked handbag. “Here!” She beams at Felicity, brandishing a tube of mascara. “We can just--”

“Mom,” Felicity snaps, annoyed.

“Felicity,” Donna answers, hurt shining through in her voice. “I just want you to look your best -- the press is outside.”

Felicity remembers with sudden, stunning clarity the time her mother interrupted the science fair winner’s ceremony to press some shiny gloss onto a resistant eleven-year-old Felicity’s lips. _For the pictures_ , her mother’d said then, and Felicity feels as embarrassed now as she did then. Maybe more, considering that _this_  time, it’s her impossibly handsome husband, her effortlessly stylish sister-in-law, and her unflappable and judgemental mother-in-law watching instead of disinterested and disappointed fellow sixth graders.

“Donna’s right,” Thea chimes in from Oliver’s side, and Felicity tries very hard not to let her hurt show. “About the press I mean.” Thea reaches out and squeezes Felicity’s hand briefly. “You look pretty great. And good job with the mug shot.”

Bewildered, Felicity shakes her head and asks, “What?”

“You smiled,” Thea answers. “One sec.” She digs her phone out and moments later, holds it up for Felicity to see. It’s Thea’s twitter feed, and she’s retweeted Felicity’s mugshot with the caption, _My gorgeous sister-in-law -- still smiling, even while being wrongfully prosecuted._  The picture is -- well, it’s an unusual mug shot, to say the least. Felicity is standing in front of the height measurements, and there’s an inmate number along the bottom border, but she’s smiling broadly at the camera, her head tilted just the slightest. Felicity is always critical of pictures of herself, but she has to admit there’s a certain je ne sais quoi to the picture.

And then she notices the retweet count and her eyes go wide.

“Yup,” Thea says with a grin. “This picture went viral.”

“My _mugshot_?” Felicity asks faintly. “That’s...” She trails off, unable to choose which adjective best describes the idea of everyone she’s ever met or admired looking at her mug shot and assuming she’s a criminal. It’s not a good feeling. Not at all.

“It’s unfortunate,” Moira Queen supplies, and Felicity’s gaze snaps to hers. She’s standing just behind Thea, her expression blandly unruffled. There’s definitely still a disapproving coolness in the way she interacts with Felicity, but it’s better than open hostility.

Probably. Felicity nods. “Yes. Unfortunate,” she agrees.

“We have Nazish and the rest of the PR department at QC working on this issue,” Moira tells her.

Jean appears at Felicity’s side, touching her elbow. “We need to wrap this up.”

Felicity nods, then turns back, her gaze connecting with Oliver’s immediately. She notices peripherally that Thea and Moira have drifted away, pulling her mother with them. Oliver steps closer, taking her hand in his. “We’ll be waiting for you when you’re released,” he promises. “Jean said it should take 45 minutes or so.”

“No!” Felicity clutches his arm and leans closer. “Oliver, it’s _five million dollars_!” she stage-whispers. Because that’s insane, and there’s no way she can sign a legally binding document promising to pay _five million dollars_  if she misses a court proceeding. She has never had five million dollars; she _will_  never have five million dollars, in all likelihood. “I can’t sign up for that kind of liability!”

“Are you planning to skip out on future hearings?” Oliver asks.

“Well, no, I’m not _planning_  to,” she concedes. “But-- But--” she fumbles. “What if I oversleep?”

“Oversleep?” Oliver repeats with an amused quirk of his lips.

“Or-- Or, I don’t know,” Felicity argues. “Something could happen, and I could miss a hearing, and then I would owe _five million dollars_! And I know this is probably a strange concept for someone with literally a _billion_  dollars, but I don’t _have_ five million dollars!”

Oliver just gives a tiny, one-shoulder shrug. “You’re my wife; what’s mine is yours. I had Walter liquidate some stock from my personal trust fund yesterday, just in case,” he explains, which leaves Felicity speechless and gaping at him. Because _what_? Oliver smiles at her reaction. “You’re not staying in jail. I need you home with me.”

Her stomach gives a weird, swooping kind of reaction to that, and Felicity can’t help but add this strange declaration from Oliver to her list of truly surreal things to happen to her in the last twenty-four hours. “Um,” she manages, reminding herself that he needs her skills to deal with the hack, and they’re keeping up appearances. She nods. “Okay.” Because she gets it, and she agrees, and she’s basically fine with whatever motivation he has if it means she doesn’t have to go back to jail.

Then he leans in and kisses her, short and sweet, stepping back as Jean arrives back at her side. Dumbfounded, Felicity follows Jean over to the security officers, and then back through the side door to the holding area.

Turns out, getting released from federal custody takes quite a lot of paperwork; Felicity signs a half-dozen forms and promises, waiting impatiently with Jean until finally they’re ushered through yet another nondescript door into a waiting area.

Oliver jolts to his feet, Diggle not far behind, and Felicity has barely taken a step towards them when they are at her side. Oliver pulls up short, letting Diggle engulf her in a bear hug. “Really glad you’re back with us,” he tells her.

“Me, too,” Felicity agrees. She squeezes his massive frame as best she can. “Thank Lyla for me, would you?”

“You’re family,” Diggle tells her. “We’re here for whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she answers quietly. A beat later, she adds, “I need a shower. Or three.”

Diggle laughs and releases her, stepping back for Oliver. But instead of the warm hug from the courtroom, Oliver shifts his weight somewhat awkwardly and reaches for her hand. “Let’s go home,” he tells her, then looks to Jean. “Thank you so much.”

Jean nods, watching their interactions closely. “We should talk tomorrow. A strategy session.”

Felicity sighs. “Sure. That sounds really fun.”

When they walk out onto the marble steps of the courthouse, a horde of reporters presses in to acost them. Felicity fleetingly wishes she’d taken her mother up on her mascara offer as Oliver slings an arm around her and hustles her past the flashbulbs and the rude questions. She hurls herself into the car and takes a relieved breath. Oliver climbs in beside her and reaches for her hand, but when she turns to him, he’s staring down at the way their fingers are tangled together atop his thigh, an odd look on his face.

 _This is all a tactic_ , she reminds herself, and gently pulls her hand free to buckle her seatbelt. She doesn’t let herself look at him to see his reaction.

The drive back to the mansion is quick and quiet and a little tense. Oliver seems to have retreated into himself, quietly staring out the window. She doesn’t know what to say to break the strange silence, so she turns her attention to the landscape slipping past. The trees are still bare and grey and sad, the grass dull and brown with the season, but Felicity has never appreciated the great outdoors so much as she does after a night in custody. She’s not one to spend days on end in the wild -- because tents, nope! -- but right now, she would strongly consider a vigorous mountain-y hike.

By the time the car rolls to a stop outside the front door, Felicity is exhausted and thankful and utterly confused by the man who is only technically her husband. She slides out of the car, heading inside before he catches up.

When she reaches the foot of the grand staircase on the left, Oliver asks from behind her, “Where are you going?”

Felicity pauses, one hand on the banister, and turns back. “I need a shower, so...”

“Okay,” he agrees, his expression oddly flat, and Felicity can’t help but think she’s missing something. She just can’t quite understand _what_. Before she can come up with a response, Oliver nods once and turns away, heading for the study.

Felicity doesn’t let herself dwell on Oliver’s awkwardness, or Diggle’s eyebrow of judgement; she simply heads up the stairs to the room she’s supposed to share with Oliver, the most confusing man on the face of the earth.

That kiss yesterday? Before she’d been hauled off to jail? It had felt _real_. She’d let herself think, during her long, scary, sleepless night in a cell, that maybe she wasn’t imagining things. Maybe Oliver really _did_ have some more-than-partner-type feelings for her. And then in the courtroom, he’d hugged her like he didn’t ever want to let her go.

But as soon as they no longer had an audience, all of the touching and the _looks_  stopped. He’d gone quiet and tense, and she knows it must be because he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

She spends a good long time in the shower, scrubbing off the lingering feel of prison garb and stale, recirculated air. No matter how tempting, she refuses -- _refuses_  -- to take a whiff of Oliver’s shower gel. He can’t be her safe place; she can’t give him that much space in her heart if she’s going to survive the inevitable “amicable divorce.”

So persuaded, Felicity tries to steel herself as she dresses.

When she emerges from the bathroom into her and Oliver’s shared bedroom, Oliver is standing over by the window, staring out at the grounds. His frame is tense and when he turns back to her, something about the way he’s watching her like he doesn’t know how to talk to her -- it spins her anxiety up.

Felicity takes a step backwards, hooking her thumb toward the door. “I, uh... I need coffee,” she says, and bolts from the room.

& & &

When Felicity basically flees his presence, Oliver takes the coward’s way out and lingers in his room -- _their_  room. Trying to navigate all the nuances of his relationship with Felicity while she’s in legal jeopardy, _and_ with the eyes of the world on them is a lot more difficult than he’d imagined. He’s still struggling with the depth of his feelings for her, and with the exhilaratingly terrifying idea of taking such a massive chance -- he doesn’t know how quite to act around her without buffers.

So instead of going after her to further mess up whatever is between them, he decides to catch up on a few phone calls.

First, he checks in at QC, and is reassured that, yes, the leak is really, truly stopped. Then he calls Jean for an update -- she’d spent the entire morning with Felicity prior to the hearing, and since Felicity hasn’t really explained what happened while she was in custody, he wants Jean to fill him in. Which Jean does, mostly -- in deference to his potential status as a witness or co-defendant, she’s circumspect with what she shares, and ends his line of questioning with, “I can’t discuss that with you, Oliver. You’ll have to talk to your wife.”

Frustrated, he thanks Jean, shoves his phone back into his pocket, and sets off in search of Felicity. He finds her in the kitchen with Thea, Donna, and Diggle, and instead of calming down since leaving him in search for coffee, she seems to have grown even more uncomfortable.

Felicity is wedged into the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the smooth marble countertops and holding a mug of coffee up to her face. But she’s not drinking it, she’s merely inhaling the scent, her gaze bouncing between Thea and Donna, who are seated at the island flipping through a pile of glossy magazines and arguing about -- centerpieces?

“I say we embrace it,” Thea says, tapping her finger against the shiny pages in front of her. “We keep the decor modern and classy, but include some winks to the situation. They can walk in to _Jailhouse Rock_ , we can incorporate stripes in the decor. You know, turn the whole thing into a joke.” She glances at Oliver. “Like you did last year.”

Oliver frowns. “What?”

Thea wrinkles her nose and gives an exaggerated shudder as she says, “Come before Oliver Queen gets off?”

Oliver flushes, embarrassed to hear his baby sister parroting that back to him. Particularly in front of his mother-in-law.

“Thea,” he warns, glancing over at Felicity, who’s now edging around the other end of the island to join Diggle by the table on the far side of the room. Her body language is still closed off, and he can’t help but blame himself. He knows he’s running hot and cold on her, and he knows it probably _seems_  like the affection is just for show, but it’s not. It’s just that he freezes up every time he has the opportunity to explain himself to her, because they have more important matters to deal with first.

Also, he is not good at expressing the things he feels deeply. Hell, he’s not that great at _acknowledging_  the things he feels deeply -- as evidenced by the fact that he doesn’t even know how long he’s been in love with Felicity.

But now that he’s realized, he’s so _aware_  of her, so caught up in the strength of his feelings for her that it paralyzes him. So he’s struggling to find the right balance, to respect her boundaries for their fake marriage, but he can’t seem to remember how to embody the easy friendship they used to have.

So he keeps a little distance between them, but keeps most of his attention on her. And he ignores the irritable looks Diggle’s shooting him.

“It’ll take the sting out,” Thea argues, pulling his attention back to the discussion at hand. “If we make fun of the idea of Felicity as a criminal, the press coverage will note that. It could alter the way they’re covering the story.”

“No way.” Donna shakes her head, crossing her arms in a way that’s achingly familiar to Oliver. He’s seen Felicity metaphorically dig her heels in a lot, and Donna’s intransigence manifests in almost exactly the same body language as her daughter. “We are not turning my daughter’s _wedding reception_  into a joke.”

Thea’s eyes go wide in alarm, and she reaches for Donna’s arm. “No, of course not,” she rushes to reassure. “I didn’t mean that. But we can we really ignore the fact that between their wedding and the reception, Felicity was arrested?” Off of Donna’s glower and Oliver’s glare, Thea quickly amends, “ _Wrongfully_  arrested.”

“You know what?” Felicity interjects, her tone full of false brightness and enthusiasm. “I’m happy for you two to decide what linens to use and which hors d’oeuvres we should serve at this party, but I’m officially vetoing any design decision involving barred windows or prison stripes or my _mug shot_.”

She’s trying so hard to sound unaffected, but Oliver can see the stress weighing on her. He’s moving before he can think about it, tossing Thea a warning look before focusing on his wife. Diggle has a supportive arm around her, tugging her into his side and murmuring something Oliver isn’t close enough to hear.

Felicity takes a shuddering breath and nods at Dig. “Yes. Good idea. _Best_ idea.”

Oliver is torn between gratefulness for Diggle’s constant support of Felicity, and that damn unwarranted jealousy that she turns to John instead of him. He _knows_  that he and Diggle aren’t rivals in this, but he wants to be the one Felicity turns to; he wants to be who she instinctually reaches out for when she’s struggling, the way he always reaches for her. He may not have fully earned it yet, but he’s trying.

Donna holds up a magazine. “How about this one, baby?” she asks. “You like purple, right?”

Felicity nods. “Purple’s great. We’re going for coffee,” she announces, handing Oliver her mostly full mug as he reaches her side. “Just--” She looks back and forth between Donna and Thea. “I appreciate this, honestly. But maybe just show me what you’re thinking later, okay?”

Puzzled, Oliver looks down at the warm mug in his hands, then moves to place it in the sink. When he turns back around, Diggle is ushering Felicity out of the kitchen and towards the front door, while Thea and Donna watch them with matching expressions of confused remorse.

Oliver takes off after Felicity and Diggle, only to be caught by Thea’s hand on his arm. “Ollie, I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” she says, her tone pleading with him to understand. “I’m sorry if I upset her.”

He pauses. “It’s okay, Speedy. She’s tired and stressed. Maybe we should put these plans on hold until we have a better handle on the legal stuff.”

Donna looks crestfallen. “But we already booked the function room at the Starling Grand for Saturday night, and I wasn’t invited to your actual wedding,” she reminds him. Her tone is plaintive, not accusatory, but intentional or not, the barb still lands.

Oliver shuts his eyes momentarily and takes a calming breath. Then he smiles at both of them. “Fine. We’ll have the party. Just -- no references to the court case, and keep the little stuff off of Felicity’s plate, okay?”

“Sure,” Thea promises.

And then Oliver is off, moving rapidly towards the front door, driven by an internal sense of urgency that he can’t quite explain. When he pushes through the front door, Diggle’s already got the car running, and Oliver’s pretty sure they weren’t actually intending to wait for him. He swallows down a bolt of anger.

He stalks to the car and opens the back passenger door with a bit more force than needed. “Thanks for waiting,” he says sarcastically, folding himself into the back seat and slamming the door behind him. “Are we headed to the foundry?”

“No,” Felicity answers, arms crossed and gaze stubbornly fixed on the back of Diggle’s head.

Diggle sighs as the car pulls away from the mansion. “Not _yet_ ,” he corrects. “We’re going to Buzzzzz, and then the foundry. Felicity’s going to work through the data we collected from Brother Eye.”

“Okay,” Oliver answers slowly. He turns to Felicity, who’s got her face averted now, staring out the window. He’s not sure if she’s angry with him, with Thea and her mother, or with the overall situation, but he knows she’s angry. “Felicity,” he prods gently, “Jean mentioned something about a deal?”

She shrugs and nods, curling into herself a bit. “The prosecution tried to get me to flip on Cooper,” she explains, her tone flat.

“Immunity for testimony?” Oliver guesses. He doesn’t have a full understanding of the criminal justice system, but after his mother’s trial, he at least knows enough to know immunity deals are _good_. He would love for Felicity to be immune from prosecution.

“ _Confession_  and testimony,” she corrects in that same emotionless voice. “Which obviously I can’t do.”

Oliver just barely resists the urge to reach for her; it’s disconcerting to see her like this. Felicity is many things, but _emotionless_  is almost never one of them, and the sight of it worries him. “Why not?” he wonders absently.

Felicity whips her head around, eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding?”

Startled by her vehemence, he glances towards Diggle, who’s giving him an exasperated look in the rearview mirror. “I just meant--”

“You know I didn’t do this,” she interrupts. _Loudly_. And passionately. He didn’t mean to make her mad, but at least this is a version of her that he understands. “So how could I possibly testify against him? I thought he was _dead_.” Her voice starts to shake, and she presses her lips together.

“Of course we know that,” Diggle reassures her, his tone enviably calm.

“Right.” Oliver holds both hands up in a plea. “I know, I didn’t mean--” He stops, reorders his thoughts. “I know the hack was Brother Eye, and possibly Cooper, and probably Isabel, too, somehow,” he explains with a frown, because he still can’t make those puzzle pieces fit. “But couldn’t you testify that the virus is yours, and that that’s how Cooper got it, and get immunity that way?”

Felicity’s glare is truly quite something. Her eyes are ferociously narrowed and fixed on him, her eyebrows drawn in, and her mouth set in a firm, angry line. She’s still beautiful, but she’s moderately terrifying, too.

Oliver backpedals. “I just want you safe from prosecution, Felicity.”

“I turned down the deal,” she answers, her words clipped and short. “It’s too late anyway.”

“But,” Oliver protests, “if this is a way to keep you out of the system, to keep you safe, then--”

“It isn’t,” she interrupts, turning her face away again. She’s tense, her shoulders drawn in and her entire body leaning away from him.

“Why not?” Oliver presses, despite knowing he’s playing with fire at this point. “We have your old laptop with the code--”

She rounds on him. “And proof that I created countermeasures _days_  ago that match exactly what stopped the hack on QC,” she snaps, “which would kind of undermine the lie about me being his secret accomplice. All of which is besides the point, because the FBI has no idea where Cooper is or how to find him, and the deal only happens if I can get him to meet me somewhere so they can arrest him, which _I can’t do_  because I haven’t spoke to Cooper since the day I sat at his _gravesite_  and apologized to him for hours, only,” she pauses with a small, angry little laugh, “that wasn’t him, either, because he wasn’t actually in the ground!” She slams her fist against the door, then hisses and shakes her hand out.

Silence crashes down around them, and Oliver has no idea what to say in response to that. He wants to help Felicity, to ease her pain, but he doesn’t know how. So he sits there, once again paralyzed by the intensity of his reactions to her.

“Felicity,” Diggle says after several long, quiet moments, “we’re nearly at Buzzzzz. Do you want me to run in and get you something? To avoid the cellphone paparazzi?”

“No,” she answers quickly, straightening up in anticipation. “I’ll go.”

Oliver can’t stop himself from reaching for her. He lays his fingers along her arm, the light wool of her bright purple coat soft to the touch. “Felicity--”

“It’s fine, Oliver,” she interrupts, giving him a forced, fake smile as the car comes to a stop. “Look,” she adds, gesturing past him to the large windows lining the Buzzzzz storefront, “I just need to go into my favorite coffeeshop, _by myself_. I want to say hi to Svetlana, maybe ask her about her classes this semester, and have a moment of normal life. _My_ life.” She stops short, pressing her lips together, regret in her eyes.

Despite the sting of her words, Oliver is already nodding, because he understands. She wants to go back to before her arrest, before their tactical marriage. Before the press attention and the pressure. “Okay,” he answers quietly, letting go of her.

“Oliver.” She shifts a bit in the seat. “It’s been a long 24 hours. I just want a few minutes of,” she shrugs, shaking her head a bit, “ _normal_. I didn’t mean--”

“I know” he interrupts, because it’s not like she’s being unreasonable. “We’ll wait here.”

Felicity’s got her hand on the door handle already, but she pauses to give him a small, but genuinely amused smile. “I’m not bringing you coffee,” she tells him, one eyebrow arched in challenge, then looks to Diggle. “John?”

Chuckling, Diggle shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Felicity takes a breath, meeting Oliver’s gaze with a level look. “I’ll be right back,” she tells him, then slips out of the car. She straightens, looping her purse over her shoulder, and closes the car door.

Oliver and Diggle track her progress as she circles around the back of the car, and then across the sidewalk in her ridiculously high heels. When she enters the coffeeshop, Oliver drops his head with a loud exhale, scrubbing a hand across his face. It’s barely mid-afternoon and he’s _exhausted_

“I take it you haven’t talked to her yet,” Diggle observes.

Groaning, Oliver leans forward just enough to catch Diggle’s eye. “I told you I’d talk to her later, after we get the more immediate issues handled. Okay?”

Dig half-turns in his seat to face Oliver more directly. “You’re wasting time,” he says. “And it’s just making things harder.”

“I can only handle two or three crises at a time,” Oliver answers, not bothering to hide his irritation. He doesn’t immediately notice that Diggle’s attention has shifted to the interior of the coffeshop. “I _told_  you--”

“Oliver,” Diggle interrupts, and the commanding tone freezes Oliver in place. “Is that Seldon?”

Every muscle in his body tensing for action, Oliver whips around, refocusing on the coffeeshop. It’s a little hard to see all the details despite the large windows, but Felicity is towards the end of the bar where patrons wait for drinks. Only her body language is stiff, and even from this distance, Oliver can see her knuckles are white around the phone clenched in her grip.

She’s facing mostly away from them, and just beyond her stands a tall, thin, dark-haired man. Oliver has only seen pictures of Cooper Seldon, and they’re honestly too far away to make a positive identification -- or they would be, if Felicity weren’t so obviously terrified.

“Fuck!” Oliver yells, and reaches for the door handle.

“Oliver, _wait_!” Diggle shouts, reaching into the backseat to try to catch hold of Oliver’s jacket. “We can’t just go bursting in there.”

“Why not?” Oliver demands, enraged at the delay, and that Diggle made him take his eyes off of the threat, even momentarily.

“Because he’s got a gun,” Diggle answers.

In the time it takes Oliver to turn back to the scene inside the coffeeshop, his stomach drops and his chest tightens with panic. Diggle’s right -- Felicity’s ex-boyfriend, the man responsible for the attack on QC, and whose intentions toward Felicity remain a complete mystery, now has one hand wrapped too tightly around Felicity’s arm, and a gun pointed right at her chest.

“John,” Oliver rasps, running through options, all of which are shit. The coffeeshop is full of a couple dozen panicking customers and workers, Seldon has clear sight to the towncar parked right out front, Oliver’s bow, arrows, and hood are a couple of blocks away, and it’s broad fucking daylight.

Diggle meets Oliver’s gaze, and the anxious expression on his friend’s face is anything but reassuring. “I know,” Dig answers.

Oliver turns back to the coffeeshop, his gaze fixated on Felicity. “What the fuck do we do now?”

END CHAPTER TEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeeeah, sorry/not sorry about this chapter break? ;) I've already started writing the next chapter, so... there will be more soon!


	11. Chapter 11

 

Felicity’s gaze ricochets around Buzzzzz, barely registering the scared faces of customers who’ve hunkered down behind tables, or the baristas who’ve fled into the back room, because she is going to find a way _out_  of this if it’s the last thing she does.

And, she has to admit, whatever she tries _could_  be the last thing she ever does, considering the gun currently pointed at her chest.

Cooper’s got her at the end of the counter, where she _had_  been calmly waiting for her drink until he approached with a mean smile and said, “Knew you’d show up here eventually. We should talk.” And then he’d racked the slide of his gun, which honestly seemed a little showy, but also underscored his point that he has a gun and it is ready to be fired. At her.

In the immediate aftermath, there’d been a brief, stunned lull, and then shrieks and yelps and the loud sounds of furniture being overturned. All Felicity can hear now is the jarringly upbeat piped in music, and her own jagged breathing.

Her mind is going a million miles an hour, trying to process what’s going on and how to end... _whatever_  this is. Because she came in here for coffee and now she’s being held hostage by her long-lost, presumed dead ex-boyfriend who is apparently a huge cybercriminal and also now an _IRL_  criminal, too, and it’s... well, she’s pretty _pissed_ , if she’s being honest.

Because he’s got her upper arm in a heavy, painful grip, and he’s pointing a gun at her.

A frakking _gun_.

She stares at the weapon for a long moment, distracted by the sudden urgent desire to identify _what kind_  of gun it is. Isn’t she supposed to catalogue details like that in the event of a kidnapping? Or if she’s being held hostage? Dig has definitely tried to drill gun safety basics into her brain, but she can’t really focus on anything other than the barrell. Cooper’s gun is heavy and black and looks not so different from Diggle’s Glock, except that the sight of Diggle with a gun in his hand makes Felicity feel protected, not threatened.

She forces herself to look away from the weapon and focus on the man she used to know. Meeting Cooper’s vicious gaze jolts her -- he looks like a completely different person, but also in some ways so achingly familiar. It leaves her breathless, seeing him _alive_.

“Cooper,” she manages. “I can’t believe...” She trails off, unable to complete the thought. Unable to _think_ , because she’d believed Oliver and Diggle when they told her that Cooper was alive, but she hadn’t _understood_  it until he’d materialized in front of her.

Because he’s standing less than two feet away, a living, breathing man -- an older and _angrier_  version of the boy she’d loved once. _This_  Cooper is breathing hard, cheeks flushed with color, enraged in a way she’s never seen. As much as she’d felt _so sure_  when she’d assured Oliver and Diggle that Cooper would never hurt her, Felicity knows now she was wrong and it sends a spike of fear up her spine.

This Cooper has an angry smirk on his face, and he’s pointing a _gun_  at her, and, honestly, _how dare he_?

“Did you _forget_  about me?” Cooper demands. “Forget about everything we promised each other?”

She shakes her head and fumbles a bit with the phone clenched in her hands. She knows that at least a few people got out of Buzzzzz -- _someone_ must have called 911. Plus, Oliver and Diggle are right outside, and are probably already planning how to intervene. So instead of duplicating efforts by trying to call for help, she sweeps her finger along the screen to unlock it and taps where her camera app should be. The phone vibrates a tiny bit as the lens shifts into focus, which is enough to let her know she’s managed to open the right app. Taking a shaky breath for courage, she presses record.

Probably. She can’t take the chance that he’d notice if she looks down, so she _really_  hopes her muscle memory and the hours she spent with her phone means she’s successfully started recording... _whatever_  this is.

Cooper narrows his eyes and tugs on her arm, apparently noticing he doesn’t have her full attention. “You forgot about me,” he accuses, his fingers biting into her upper arm. “You just moved on with your life.”

“Cooper,” she says, trying not to let her voice shake -- with fear _or_  with anger. She needs to be calm, to cut through all of his misplaced rage and reach the Cooper she remembers, “I don’t understand what--”

“You just _left_  me in there,” he accuses, his words bitter.

“You _died_!” Felicity answers, probably a little too forcefully, considering the weapon trained on her chest. She blows out a breath and adds, “I went to your funeral!”

“Oh, stop,” he shouts, stepping closer, yanking her until they’re nearly chest to chest, a cruel parody of a lovers’ pose. “I mean before that.”

Puzzled, Felicity tries to follow what he’s saying. “Before what? Before you were arrested?”

He leans in, and how could she have forgotten that he’s so tall? He’s not broad like Oliver or Diggle, but he’s _solid_ , now; stronger. The Cooper she remembers never used his body to intimidate or bully, but the man before her now is pressing every physical advantage he has. His fierce grip on her arm is definitely going to leave a mark. “You said you’d do anything to fix it!”

Felicity curls in on herself a bit, the words and the memory it evokes its own kind of blow. Because he’s talking about their last conversation, the one she tortured herself with for months on end. She’d visited him in jail that day -- after his plea bargain, but before he was formally sentenced. It’d been real then, inescapable -- Cooper was going to spend years in prison. She’d cried, separated from him by bulletproof glass, hearing his voice only through the stupid old-fashioned phone.

After his death -- _fake_  death, it turns out -- she’d tried to remember every word, and she’d tortured herself with the leaden certainty that she’d missed a clue. That she could’ve saved him, if only she’d recognized what he was trying to say to her. She _had_ said she’d do anything to fix it -- she remembers that part vividly, because she’d said it as some sort of lament, one of those _if only things were different_  kind of statements, meant to express the depth of her regret.

Only he’d apparently understood her words as some sort of promise.

“Cooper,” she manages. “I _tried_  to tell them, but you took the plea bargain, and--”

“You said you’d do anything!” he shouts, and she freezes when the barrel of the gun presses against her sternum. “You’re the smartest fucking person I know.” He leans in, his words cruel and cutting. “And you _never_  let me forget how much smarter you were than me.”

She takes a breath. “I _tried_  to fix it before you made that deal, Cooper. I begged the cops to listen to me--”

“I thought it was you!” he interrupts, and then he jerks his head around, scanning the interior of the shop, squinting to see outside.

Felicity follows his gaze and catches a glimpse of flashing blue lights and navy blue uniforms -- the police are setting up a perimeter, settling in for a hostage negotiation, most likely.

Then suddenly Cooper’s moving, tugging her along. The barrel of the gun eases away as he pulls her farther into the restaurant. She barely notices the patrons near the front scrambling toward the door and spilling out into the street as she stumbles along with Cooper. He moves them around behind counter, and starts pushing her towards the door to the back room.

Felicity knows she can’t go with him, and she is irrationally pissed that he thinks he can just drag her around like a sack of potatoes. Nothing but badness will come from going _anywhere_  with Cooper. He’s not the man she remembers, the guy with a chip on his shoulder, relatively good intentions, and a soft spot for her. She has to treat him like any other threat, any other kidnapper.

So she clamps her hands onto the countertop and digs in her heels, bracing herself for violence as he rounds on her. She speaks before he can yell, trying to distract him. “What did you think was me?” she demands, looking to distract him from whatever he’s working himself up to do; looking for more insight into all of his rage. “What are you talking about?”

“You _left_  me to rot in jail,” he repeats, stepping closer, glowering down at her.

Felicity shrugs, completely at a loss. She knows this -- whatever _this_  is -- is the key to Cooper’s anger, but she has no idea what he thinks she could’ve done to get him out of jail.

“You told me you would fix it,” Cooper all but hisses at her, “and then less than 24 hours later, some governmental agency I’ve never heard of arrives, offering me a deal for my computer skills?” Cooper scoffs, like the answer should be obvious.

And finally, it all clicks. Her mouth drops open as she tries to process what he’s saying; what he’d _thought_. “You thought that I…” She pauses, searching for words, her fingers clutching the countertop. “You thought the deal was something I created? You-- You thought I _hacked_  you out of prison?”

“Of course I thought it was you!” Cooper shouts.

It’s a horrifying revelation, and she’s not sure if it makes Cooper’s choices better or worse. He hadn’t _meant_  for her to think he was dead, because he thought the faked suicide was part of her master plan. Only then he’d been in the employ of a dark government agency, probably forced to do things that were in direct contradiction to his rather anarchistic point of view. And he’d been trapped because of a deal he’d only accepted because he thought it was _her_  cover story for breaking him out of jail.

Maybe his seething anger makes a little more sense with that context, but Felicity still doesn’t understand why he’d apparently assigned all the blame for his circumstances to _her_. He’d always been the one to push boundaries, he’d been the one to attract the attention of the feds in the first place. And then he’d “confessed” all about her bionumetric algorithm without even talking to a lawyer.

He’d made enough bad choices to land him in federal prison, and she doesn’t deserve to be the target of his anger for not breaking him out.

But she also needs to try to talk him down, to keep him from killing her. So she swallows her own anger and tries to tap into her grief for the loss of the boy she’d loved once. Because Cooper Seldon may be standing in front of her, alive and well, but he is nothing like the Coop she’s mourned all these years. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Cooper,” she begins. And she means it.

But apparently, Cooper is not ready to hear it. “You promised to fix things, so I agreed to that fucking deal. I signed the rest of my _l_ _ife_  away because I knew you would never just leave me to rot in prison -- except that’s exactly what you did!” He’s so loud and so angry that a vein in his forehead throbs.

“Cooper, I couldn’t possibly have hacked the entire system that way,” she protests, and, yes, she’s more than a little angry now, too. “How many different agencies would I have to hack? I have nowhere near the understanding of the criminal justice system to--”

“Excuses!” he interrupts angrily, giving her a little shake. “You could’ve done it if you’d bothered to try, but instead you left me to die in prison. And then you abandoned everything that we stood for!”

“That _you_  stood for,” Felicity corrects. Exposing corruption is very different from burning the whole world down because he’d judged capitalism and found it wanting.

“We were both hacktivists,” Cooper argues. “Until you got sucked into whatever _this_  is.” He lets go of her aching arm just long enough to give her ponytail a rough, derisive tug. “And now you’re just another member of the capitalistic herd, aren’t you, Felicity _Queen_?”

“Is that why you went after Queen Consolidated?” she shoots back, wincing as he grabs her arm again, yanking her a half-step closer. “Because of me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself -- I didn’t pick the target,” he answers. Then he smiles at her, an ugly kind of smile. “But you can bet your ass I picked the job when I saw the target.”

Cooper pushes her to the side, then clamps an arm around her, pinning her arms to her ribcage and yanking her back against his solid chest. She can see the gun out of her peripheral vision, horrifying close to her head now, but her attention is caught by the same thing that prompted Cooper’s action -- movement in the back room.

Her heart beats faster, because she knows down to her very core that Oliver and Diggle are working to intervene, regardless of the police’s more conservative approach to hostage negotiation.

She glances around from her new perspective -- held flush against Cooper where he’s backed up as close to the wall as he can get, wedged into the small nook created by the industrial refrigerator jutting out past the small sterile sink intended for the baristas to wash their hands. He’s got her angled so she can see the front entrance and the windows that overlook the police cordon out on the street, as well as at least a slice of the door to the back room -- the rest is blocked by the refrigerator.

As far as she knows, those are the only two ways out of Buzzzzz. They’re trapped and the cops are here, and probably Diggle and Oliver, and her options are quickly dwindling. More importantly, it’s clear to her that she can’t rely on anyone else to stop Cooper; he’s too volatile.

Because Cooper seems to be devolving. He’d started out angry, but now he is enraged, his body tense against her back, his breathing harsh and ragged. And she’s his target, because he’s made her into the imagined cause of his downfall. She’s not entirely sure why he’d sought her out, but her instincts are telling her he intended to kill her.

She’ll be damned if she stands here and lets it happen. Whatever happens next, she needs to save herself.

So she shifts, moving her arm enough to drop her phone on the ground, the screen facing up. The screen that’s showing a live shot of the ceiling as the camera program continues to record. The movement and the noise draws his attention, and when Cooper sees it, he understands almost immediately that she’s been recording him.

It’s a gamble, but she needs him distracted.

“Fuck!” he shouts, moving and forcing her one step forward so he can stomp on her phone. It’s an act of rage, not practicality, and it means he’s at least momentarily focused on the phone and not her. And the hand holding the gun by her forehead shifts a little, too.

So Felicity acts -- she grabs his wrist, yanking the gun away so it points harmlessly at the countertop. She pushes his hand away from his body, dislodging arm around her enough so that she can take another step forward. Cooper reacts, reaching his free hand for the gun, but Felicity drives his arm down as hard as she can, straight into her thigh. And, God, it hurts, but it must hurt him, too, because he yelps and the gun clatters away.

“Oliver!” she yells. “Dig! Help!”

Cooper is furious now, swearing and trying to trap her against him again, to use her as a shield. She whirls in place, bringing her elbow up and slamming it into his cheek. She hisses with pain that radiates up her arm, but Cooper stumbles back, bringing his hands to his face.

When he looks up at her again, Felicity is filled with a cold, knowing kind of terror. This is undoubtedly the face of a man who wants to kill her. His hands curl into fists, and his mouth twists with rage when he yells, “You bitch!”

There’s a clatter of noise behind her, likely from the coffeehouse’s backroom, and she’s pretty sure she hears something from above her. Then there’s the sound of the front door slamming open and multiple booted footsteps. She hears Diggle yelling her name, and then a gruff voice shouts, “Freeze! SCPD!”

Felicity can’t tear her gaze from Cooper’s face as he weighs his options. It takes a long, terrifying moment, and her whole body goes ice cold at the certainty that if he’d still been holding his gun, he would’ve shot her, and damn the consequences. Instead, he shouts his frustration and lifts his hands.

Cops in SWAT gear swarm in, surrounding Cooper’s unresisting form, and then Diggle is beside her, protecting her, partially blocking her view. Her legs start to shake and she leans hard against the countertop, her breathing fast and uneven.

“You all right?” Diggle asks gruffly. When she doesn’t immediately answer, he leans down to get right in her line of sight. “Felicity?”

“Yeah?” she asks, distracted by Cooper’s glare in her direction, even as he’s dragged away in cuffs.

“Felicity,” calls a familiar voice, and when she looks over, Officer Lance is moving closer.

Before she can react, Oliver appears, barreling past the officers and elbowing his way past Lance to come to a panicky halt in front of her. “Felicity.” His gaze sweeps her form, searching for injuries, probably. She notes absently that he’s no longer wearing a coat, and there’s some dust on his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” she tells him. Her arm is tender where he’d gripped her, and her elbow and thigh hurt from fighting back, but she’d had a _gun_  in her face and wasn’t shot, so she’ll call it a win. She’s not sure what to do with herself right now. Her body is still shaking from the adrenaline.

Oliver takes her hand, lifting her arm towards him and gently cupping her banged up elbow. “Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks, sounding a little awed.

Felicity shrugs her other shoulder. “Dig taught me.”

Oliver gives a shaky laugh, and then steps forward to wrap her in a desperate embrace. “Thank God for Diggle,” he mutters, turning his face into her hair. She can feel his breath against her ear. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” she answers, slowly bringing her arms up around his back. “I’m okay.” It’s not a lie, exactly, more of an exaggeration.

She closes her eyes tight and leans into his body, trying to remember how to _feel_  okay.

& & &

The scene outside of Buzzzzz is a madhouse -- the press arrived not long after the cops, and the FBI swooped in next. Through it all, Felicity has maintained that she’s fine, but Oliver insists she be seen by paramedics anyway, and can’t keep himself from fussing over the shock blanket wrapped around her frame.

She’s quiet and still, and Oliver cannot take his eyes off of her. She’s clearly in shock -- her words oddly flat, her hands shaky.

Cooper’d held a gun to her head, and Oliver had only been able to watch. He and Diggle had hatched a complicated, desperate plan, skirting around to the back of the building. Oliver’d picked the lock on the back door, and Diggle had eased toward the door while Oliver’d popped a ceiling tile free and hoisted himself into the space above the drop ceiling. Diggle was supposed to create a distraction, at which point Oliver would drop down onto Cooper, but before they could get into position, Felicity -- this brave, terrifying woman that he loves -- made her own move and disarmed Cooper, allowing Diggle and the police to swarm in.

Stunned, Oliver had crawled quickly back to the open ceiling tile in the backroom and hauled ass back around to the front, pushing his way past the cops that tried to keep him outside.

Because it turned out that she hadn’t needed his help. He’s incredibly proud of her, but he’s _still_  scared about how things could’ve gone so very differently. He could’ve lost her, could’ve had to watch another person he loves die in front of him.

He’s still shaking -- with fear, with rage, with relief -- when Diggle hugs her tight, then disappears. Oliver shifts closer, easing an arm around her blanketed shoulders while Felicity gives her basic statement to Lance and a subdued Agent Vasquez. She reaches for his free hand, her fingers like icicles. She’s nearly done recounting what happened when Diggle reappears and presents her with a triple latte from Jitters.

And that’s when Felicity’s composure cracks.

Her face crumples, and a couple tears stream down her cheeks. Oliver’s heart drops, his chest aching at the sight of her tear-filled eyes; it’s worse when she tips her chin up and sniffles, swiping the tear tracks from her face. She’s so fucking brave, so stubborn.

“Thank you, John,” she manages, accepting the coffee with a little smile. She releases her hold on Oliver’s hand in the process, so he takes a half-step closer, slowly rubbing her upper back.

Lance is uncomfortably empathetic in the face of her distress. “We can finish this later,” he tells them, then ushers Vasquez back towards the two SUVs that are operating as a sort of mobile command center. Lance turns back to add, “You can get out of here -- can we come by later to finish your statement?”

“Wait,” Felicity says, still sniffling a bit. She’s still upset, but she’s fought her way through it as usual. She’s fully engaged in the conversation, laser focused on the issue. Oliver’s relief increases when she takes a half-step towards Lance and asks, “Did you find my phone?”

Lance moves closer, an apologetic tilt to his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but if it’s the one on the floor behind the counter--”

“With the purple case,” she interjects, and her tone would be businesslike if it weren’t still just a little unsteady. “Yes, that’s mine.”

“I think you’re gonna need a new phone,” Lance says, a regretful twist to his mouth. “That one’s pretty badly damaged.”

“I know,” she answers with a nod, “he stomped on it when he realized I was recording.”

Oliver goes stiff with shock, exchanging looks with Diggle. His surprise is almost immediately replaced by a swell of pride, because of _course_ Felicity, when faced with physical threats, fought back with technology. She’d kept her head and she swallowed down her fear the way he’s seen her do before, and she’d tried to make sure people would know what happened in that coffeeshop.

He absolutely does _not_  let himself think about how he could’ve been left with an audio recording of her death to haunt his dreams.

Fuck. He's definitely going to have some nightmares about that.

He’s shaking again, and he has to take a deep, almost gasping breath to counteract the pressure in his chest. He tightens his grip on her hands and shifts, basically crowding into her because he needs to be closer. She leans into him, just a bit.

“You…” Lance tips his head to the side. “You _recorded_  what happened?”

“Yeah.” Felicity takes an unsteady breath. “It seems like his part in all of this was sparked by some sort of revenge fantasy against me.”

“Revenge for what?” Oliver demands, immediately regretting his harsh tone when she whips her head around to look at him. He’s angry at that prick for attacking her, but the last thing Oliver wants to do is upset her further.

He should’ve known she’d simply stare back at him, unfazed by what she would almost certainly call his growling. “For not breaking him out of prison,” Felicity answers, and Oliver blinks at her. Because... for _what_? He can’t figure out what she means. But Felicity just shrugs tiredly and turns back to Lance. “Just listen to it.”

“Is the recording salvageable?” Lance interjects.

“It should be,” Felicity answers. “He ruined the screen and probably some of the phone’s workings, but the memory card is in a slot along the side.” She glances at Oliver and gives him a tiny nod, which he assumes means that whatever she’d recorded is also safely stored in her secure cloud-based network.

“Yeah, okay,” Lance says. “I’ll let the techs know. You should get home, warm up, eat something to go along with all that caffeine.”

With a tiny smile, Felicity nods, cradling her coffee to her chest and turning toward the car. The car that is, unfortunately, outside the perimeter, which means the press are going to be a factor. Oliver touches her shoulder and she pauses, turning tear-filled eyes up to him. He shifts uncomfortably. “The press--”

“I don’t care,” she says, tilting her chin up in that stubborn way of hers; the sight makes his chest ache with pride. “I just want to go home.”

Oliver nods, and doesn’t let himself ask if she means their room in the mansion. She probably doesn’t, but they can’t very well go to her apartment right now, not when some portion of the press will jump in their cars to follow. So he and Diggle form as much of a protective wall as they can around her, and they push their way to the car.

As expected, they’re bombarded with flashbulbs and shouted questions. Oliver wrenches the door open and climbs in right after her, slamming it shut behind them. When he turns to Felicity, she’s already receded to the other side of the car, buckling her seatbelt and cradling her coffee to her chest, the shock blanket still pulled loosely around her shoulders.

It’s a quiet ride to the mansion. Diggle keeps half an eye on the press following them, and Oliver can’t help but watch Felicity carefully, even though he runs the very real risk of pissing her off. Luckily she is too focused on her coffee to chafe at his attention. He knows she’s still raw, still processing a lot of what happened, and he doesn’t want to crowd her or push her. But he also doesn’t want her to feel like she’s alone in any of this.

He just doesn’t know quite how to _say_ any of that to her.

When the car pulls to a stop beside the portico, Donna, Thea, and Moira spill out of the front door and approach the car with varying levels of concern and impatience.

“I guess they heard what happened,” Felicity sighs. She pushes the door open before Oliver can offer to run interference. She’d probably refuse anyway.

Donna and Thea pull Felicity into worried hugs, and then they flank her as she turns for the door. Oliver’s attention shifts to his mother, who seems genuinely concerned as Donna, Felicity, and Thea move past her and into the mansion. Oliver takes a moment to study his mother when she turns to him, looking for insincerity in her expression or distaste in her eyes, but he just sees his mother. Flawed, but deeply protective of her family.

Moira takes his hand and asks, “Is Felicity’s okay?”

“She will be,” he answers. Off of his mother’s expectant look, he elaborates, “Her ex-boyfriend is responsible for the hack, and held her at gunpoint. She disarmed him and elbowed him in the face. And,” he adds proudly, “she apparently recorded the whole thing on her phone.”

Her face is unreadable as she nods. “So it’s true that this Cooper Seldon was targeting QC,” she surmises, “with no inside assistance.”

Oliver wonders what the press is reporting, and whether the police have already contacted his mother to provide a brief recap. He appreciates her concern, but he really needs her to let go of whatever her reservations about Felicity are, so he confirms what he can, hoping it will help improve his mother’s attitude toward his wife. “Felicity had nothing to do with this, and the police have clear proof of that now,” he explains. “I’m not sure they know yet whether there was inside help, but it’s clear from what happened today that Felicity has been a target of the attack, not a co-conspirator.”

Moira Queen hums her understanding, but doesn’t say anything more as she accompanies him to the small family sitting room near the kitchen. Donna and Thea are seated on either side of Felicity on the couch; Donna is fussing with the blanket around Felicity’s shoulders, smoothing it down, tugging it tighter. Diggle stands near the door, not quite comfortable enough to take a seat, but clearly unwilling to leave his friend. Oliver meets his eyes and tips his head toward the seating area in something less than an order but more insistent than a suggestion. He knows Felicity will appreciate having John close.

Once Diggle nods his acquiescence, Oliver moves toward the couch, training an insistent look on his sister. Thea looks up at him, bewildered, until she figures out that he wants her to move so he can sit with Felicity. When Thea rises, she touches Oliver’s arm as she moves past.

Oliver drops onto the couch beside Felicity, his arm going around her automatically. She tilts into him, just a little bit, and he very slightly increases the pressure of his palm against her arm, a wordless invitation to lean on him.

Thea and Diggle settle into the smaller sofa, while Moira busies herself at the drink cart. Oliver waits for Felicity to meet his gaze, then raises his eyebrows, wordlessly asking what she needs. Felicity lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, as her mother chatters away beside her, cataloguing how scared she’d been, and how she’d never trusted that Cooper, and how proud she is of Felicity for clocking him one.

Oliver catches Donna’s eye and gives her a smile and a quick nod of agreement. The more time passes from the panic he’d felt watching Felicity elbow Cooper, the more he can enjoy her irrepressible spirit. Donna beams at him. “My baby girl’s a fighter.”

“I’ve definitely noticed that,” Oliver answers with a chuckle. His smile widens when Felicity turns an exasperated look his way.

When Moira approaches holding a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, Oliver is as surprised as Felicity appears to be. “Brandy,” Moira explains, offering the glass to a wide-eyed Felicity. “To help settle your nerves, and warm you back up.”

Donna looks at her daughter with alarm. “Are you still cold, baby girl?”

“Adrenaline crash,” Oliver offers, rubbing his hand along Felicity’s arm. “It can leave you feeling very cold, particularly your extremities.”

Felicity spares him a quick glance, then accepts the glass from Moira. “Thank you,” she murmurs. She takes a tentative sip, her cheeks reddening as she tries very hard not to react. She swallows hard, then moves the glass down to her lap as she offers Moira a smile.

Moira turns to the others. “Would anyone else care for a drink?” she asks. Oliver appreciates the offer, even if none of them take her up on it. His mother settles into the wingback chair near the fireplace, clasping her hands in her lap.

Silence settles over them for a few moments, but Thea is practically vibrating with impatience. “What _happened_?” she demands finally. “The news said--”

“Thea,” Oliver interrupts, determined to spare Felicity with a secondary interrogation. “Is there any ice cream in the house?”

Puzzled, Thea blinks. “Uh. Probably.”

“You like mint chocolate chip, right?” he presses, ignoring his mother’s puzzled look and the amused arch of Diggle’s eyebrow.

“Not as much as mocha,” Thea answers, her forehead creased with confusion, “but sure.”

Oliver gives his sister a smile. “Can you check what our options are?” He glances at his mother, then locks gazes with Felicity. “I think Felicity would prefer ice cream to brandy. Wouldn’t you?”

She grins at him -- it’s small, but genuine, and the first bright spark of _his_  Felicity he’s seen since she disappeared into that coffeehouse and confronted her violent ex-boyfriend. “I wouldn’t turn down ice cream,” she allows. Then, eyebrows jumping up, she turns to Moira to add, “I mean, the brandy is great. Very... warming.” She forces herself to take another, larger sip, only wincing a bit as she swallows. “Thank you,” she rasps.

Oliver watches his mother’s reaction, expecting something negative. Instead, she simply smiles at Felicity and offers, “If we don’t have ice cream, we can have some delivered.”

The next couple hours pass in relative peace.

Donna, Thea, and Oliver fall into an easy pattern of doting on Felicity by turns. They ply her with food and drink, ensuring she takes care of herself in the aftermath of her trying day. She and Thea drizzle a truly insane amount of chocolate syrup onto the only ice cream in the house -- plain vanilla -- and eat a lot very quickly. Despite the frozen treat, Felicity warms up enough to shrug out of the blanket, twisting it around to lie across her lap instead. Something about the combination of his sister and her mother calms Felicity, and before too long, she’s smiling along as Donna tells Thea silly stories about a young Felicity in Vegas casinos.

Diggle is a stalwart presence, refusing to leave his friend until he’s convinced she’s okay emotionally as well as physically. Even Moira is solicitous and kind -- Oliver’s not sure what to make of her transformation, but he decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He simply makes sure to keep Felicity’s glass of water topped off, and digs up some water crackers for her predictable craving for something salty when she polishes off the ice cream.

He watches her start to heal, savoring her presence here, in his childhood home, comfortable with his sister. Their interaction warms him. And it sets something afire in his chest each time Felicity reaches for him. She holds his hand for a while, she emphasizes a point by laying her palm on his knee, and she throws part of her shock blanket across his lap to share.

When Jean Lohring shows up as the afternoon shifts slowly into evening, Oliver’s hackles rise. He’s trying to anticipate the next attack, which leaves him wholly unprepared for her actual announcement.

“Felicity,” Jean says, sitting primly on the only open item of furniture in the room -- the matching wingback chair beside Moira, “the prosecutors have dropped all charges against you. They would like to release a statement to the press clarifying the events of the past few days.”

Felicity understands first, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Clarifying?” she asks slowly, sparing Oliver a quick glance. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

Oliver nods his agreement, even before Jean continues, because even without knowing the details, Oliver suspects this _clarification_  is actually closer to a cover up of some kind.

Jean tips her head slightly, as if granting Felicity’s point. “The prosecutor let me know his office would like to release information that explains that your arrest and the charges filed yesterday were part of an orchestrated attempt to lure out the actual guilty party,” Jean explains, “who has, as a result of their actions, now been arrested and booked.”

Diggle shifts in his seat, arms crossing; Donna and Thea both seem uncertain; Moira looks pleasantly surprised; and Oliver and Felicity exchange angry looks.

“Are you serious?” Felicity demands. Loudly.

Oliver can’t quite hold his tongue. “An orchestrated attempt?” he scoffs. “They had no idea where Cooper was until he _attacked_  Felicity.”

Jean remains unruffled. “I understand your frustration, and this is a pretty clear attempt by the FBI and the prosecutor’s office to save face.” She pauses, crossing her legs. “That said, it seems like a reasonably good outcome.”

“You mean for the FBI,” Oliver interjects. “They’re the ones who put Felicity in harm’s way by shining a huge spotlight on her.”

Jean dips her chin in agreement. “The prosecutor wanted me to pass along his regrets that their investigation was in error--”

“In error,” Felicity mutters, her hand landing on Oliver’s knee.

“--and to emphasize that this kind of statement may help remove any lasting effects that having a publicly reported arrest may have.”

Moira leans forward a few inches in her seat. “Is this offer to,” she pauses minutely, “ _clarify_  recent events intended to ward off any future civil suits by my daughter-in-law for damages to her reputation as a result of the wrongful arrest?”

Jean smiles. “That is the long and short of it, yes. If I may,” she continues, turning back to Felicity, “a wrongful arrest case might be possible in these circumstances, but in order to prove it, we would need to argue that the police knew they didn’t have a case against you when they arrested and charged you. Their defense to those claims would be to lay out the case they’ve built the past few days, prior to Cooper Seldon’s arrest today. I’ve said before I didn’t believe it was a strong enough case to warrant arresting and charging you at that point, but they did have some evidence that at least _appeared_  to implicate you.”

Oliver clenches his jaw -- that doesn’t sound like a particularly helpful option. And ideally, he wants this over and done with as quickly as possible so that they can all move on. Felicity is looking down at her hands; she’s plucking at the blanket on her lap, her purple nail polish bright against the dull grey fabric. “Felicity?” he prompts.

She meets his gaze for a long, searching moment, and he tries to convey his unwavering support with whatever decisions she makes. She lifts her chin and turns back to Jean. “What would this press release say, exactly?”

“That is open to some negotiation,” Jean answers. “I’m sure we could persuade the prosecutor’s office to laud your agreement to this strategy, despite the very real risks to you, and the potential reputational harm to your family’s company.”

Oliver is watching Felicity close enough to see the way her mouth tightens when Jean refers to QC as her family’s company. He has a thousand things he wants to say to Felicity, but they have an audience at the moment.

She keeps her attention on Jean. “Which parts of the last few days would be included in this supposed strategy?” she asks.

Before Jean can answer, Oliver lifts a hand and looks at Donna, Moira, Thea, and even Diggle, though he honestly wouldn’t mind if their friend stayed. “Could Jean, Felicity, and I have the room, please?” he requests.

Donna and Moira join Thea in rising from their seats and moving towards the door. Moira pauses, turning back, glancing from Oliver to Felicity. “Assuming that Jean can get the prosecutor’s office to agree on favorable language, a full vindication of Felicity might be in everyone’s best interest.”

“Mom,” Oliver warns. She relents, but Oliver can’t help but wonder whether she orchestrated this _clarifying statement_  plan in the first place. It would fall in line with her privileging of the Queen family over anything, though he supposes she doesn’t have much sway with the SCPD at this point.

Diggle lingers, just a bit, then passes behind the couch so he can squeeze Felicity’s shoulder on his way by. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you,” Felicity answers, then turns somewhat confused eyes to Oliver, asking without words why he’d cleared the room.

“I was trying to avoid the kind of pressure my mother just applied on her way out of the room,” he answers. “This is _your_  decision, Felicity, and we need to do what’s best for you.”

“I’m not sure anyone would believe I’m a good enough actress to have pulled all of this off,” she answers with a worried glance at Jean. “Also, we should consider what things, _exactly_ , should be included in the statement as part of the ruse.”

Oliver’s mouth quirks at her word choice, before he catches up to what she’s suggesting. She wants to announce that their marriage was all part of the setup for Seldon; the thought that she wants to end their marriage -- however tentative and strained it may be -- makes his insides twist with panic. What if he’s already missed his chance with her? “Felicity--”

“It’s the perfect opportunity,” she interrupts, dropping her voice even though Jean’s too close to be unable to hear their conversation. “We can--”

“ _Felicity_.” He stops her with an insistent look. They can’t admit their marriage was fake to Jean, and he _really_  doesn’t think he can handle hearing Felicity explain how great it will be to walk away from it. To walk away from him before he even has a chance to ask her to stay.

She snaps her mouth shut, glaring at him.

“Absolutely not,” he tells her. “We can’t.”

“We _can_ ,” she insists. “And then you would be--”

“Felicity, Oliver,” Jean interrupts, pushing herself upright. She fixes them with a chastening look. “I’m going to see about a glass of water while you two make your decision.”

Felicity holds her silence until the door closes behind Jean. “We should announce that this--” She gestures between them, and Oliver’s heart cracks-- “was part of the strategy related to the QC attack.”

“No way,” Oliver argues. He’s half-turned on the couch to face her, and he reaches for her hands.

She frowns down at their entangled hands, then looks up at him. “But it _was_  part of the strategy related to the attack -- just, it was _our_  strategy and not the FBI’s.”

“No.” His tone is forceful, but all he can manage is a helpless shrug, unable to come up with a more persuasive argument in the face of his ongoing panic. Hadn’t he just decided to be brave enough to give this thing between them a shot? How did they end up here so quickly? And what can he possibly say in this moment that would make sense? It’s hardly the time to unload all of his feelings on her -- assuming he’s even capable of expressing his turbulent emotions -- she was held _at gunpoint_  by her ex-boyfriend just a few hours ago.

Felicity crosses her arms, which is never a good sign for him. He used to be the most stubborn person in his life, until he met Felicity. She trains those bright blue eyes on him and holds her ground. “I don’t understand why you’re so adamant about this. We agreed to get married for the legal protections, and it seems like the legal threat is over.”

“ _Seems_  like,” Oliver answers quickly, grasping at conversational straws. She’s about to argue, so the blurts, “You and I both know there was an insider involved -- this Snowfinch person -- and we both know it was almost certainly Isabel.”

Felicity turns a bit, facing him more directly, her hands still firmly encased in his. There’s very little distance between them, which means those blazing blue eyes of hers are mesmerizingly close. He can feel himself tipping closer, drawn to her.

“So what if it is Isabel?” she asks. “Corporate threats we can face the way we always have. This _tactic_  was always about the criminal justice system and the testimonial protection.”

Oliver chooses a new tack. “We need the press to focus on your innocence, and report that as loudly as they reported your arrest. If we include anything about our personal relationship, it would undermine the more important parts of the announcement.”

“Oliver--”

“Plus,” he presses on, determined to win this particular argument, determined to stay married to her at least long enough to ask her to dinner, “we’d have a lot of explaining to do, considering the coverage of our press conference.” She tilts her head in confusion, and he can feel his cheeks go a little pink as he adds, “Our kiss, I mean. The coverage of -- there was a lot of attention on that particular moment. That and there are some pictures from the courtroom, too.” He saved one of them hugging to his phone, actually, like a besotted idiot.

Felicity shifts. “Well, we just explain that the whole thing was fake,” she suggests, but there’s not much force behind it. She sounds like she’s offering up the idea because she feels she has to, not because she believes that it’s a viable option. He knows she can imagine how vicious the press would be if they believed they’d been duped.

“We can’t,” Oliver says, and he knows he’s arguing too forcefully, but he can’t seem to keep himself in check. “And it’s _not_  fake, because we are _actually married_.”

She’s watching him carefully now, like he’s a mystery she’s trying to solve. Her brow crinkles as she studies him. “Right,” she answers slowly. “But we’re going to have to divorce eventually, since the marriage is a tactic.”

Later, Oliver will blame the note of disappointment he hears in her voice for his reaction to her words. He releases his grip on her hands, but only so that he can cup her face. “It’s _not_  a tactic,” he says. And then he kisses her. There’s no one around, no one to persuade, no reason to kiss her other than his desire to kiss her.

It would be perfect, this moment, except that she’s statue-still and unresponsive when there’s a sharp knock and the sound of the door opening.

Oliver eases back, staring down at Felicity as his heart hammers in his chest. Her mouth drops open into a small, shocked ‘O’ but she doesn’t _say anything_.

And then Jean speaks from the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but the press are pushing for information and the prosecutor’s office needs to make a decision,” Jean explains, venturing a couple steps into the sitting room.

Oliver releases Felicity’s face, sitting back a bit to give her some space. Felicity watches him for another moment, then sweeps the blanket off of her lap and pushes to her feet, leaving Oliver feeling raw and strangely exposed.

“Thank you so much, Jean,” Felicity says, approaching the other woman. “I appreciate your candor so much. We’ve decided to go with the prosecutor’s _clarifications_ \--” She adds sarcastic air quotes, but blazes on-- “so long as it’s made clear that the Queen family and QC were reluctantly persuaded that this option offered the best way to find the escaped felon behind the attack. Please minimize information about Cooper and me at MIT if at all possible.”

Jean nods, then glances quickly at Oliver. “I’ll make sure the statement gets emailed to you for final approval before it’s released. Anything else to consider?” she asks delicately.

Oliver can’t help himself. “Please make sure the statement includes just how proud Felicity’s husband and in-laws are of her bravery.” Felicity’s frame stiffens, but she doesn’t turn back.

The smile Jean favors Oliver with this time holds at least a hint of amusement. “Will do.” She gestures towards the door. “I just need a few minutes to discuss the particulars with the prosecutor.”

“Of course,” Felicity answers. She stands oddly still, watching Jean disappear.

And then they’re alone again, that strange, one-sided kiss hanging in the air between them. Oliver wants to ask her about it, to beg for the opportunity to try it again, but it feels like there’s a metal band around his chest constricting his ability to breathe, never mind speak. He feels stupid just sitting there on the couch, so he rises, circling the coffee table. For lack of any better options, he heads for the drink cart to pour himself some whisky.

But Felicity’s voice stops him short. “Oliver, what was that?”

His body feels clumsy and unresponsive as he turns to face her, and he notices absently that he’s breathing too quickly. The moment is heavy -- with possibility, with risk, with the likelihood that this amazing woman standing before him knows full well that she deserves much more than he can offer. But offer himself he will. His lungs still feel like they’re malfunctioning, but he clears his throat. “I kissed you,” he tells her, his voice a bit wobbly with nerves.

He’s frozen in place, waiting for her reaction.

Felicity makes a face. “I know that. But I don’t--” She breaks off, taking a step closer to him, those keen blue eyes studying him. “I don’t understand why.”

He takes a breath, the pressure in his chest easing just a bit. “Because I wanted to.”

He has a followup; he has several followups, actually -- _because you’re beautiful; because kissing you makes me feel calm in a way I almost forgot I could feel; because I love you_  -- but Thea and Donna breeze into the room and head right for Felicity.

“Is everything okay, baby girl?” Donna asks, reaching her daughter’s side and rubbing a comforting arm up and down Felicity’s back.

Felicity is still staring at Oliver, but she manages to answer her mother. “I’m fine. Jean’s working on the statement with the prosecutor’s office.”

Oliver can’t stop himself from taking a step closer to her. He is always, always drawn to her. “Felicity?”

Thea looks back and forth between them. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Felicity answers, breaking his gaze and turning to his sister. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Thea shrugs somewhat theatrically. “I don’t know, but Oliver’s face looks all weird.”

He tries to blank his expression as all three women turn their attention to him. “My face does not look weird,” he tells Thea, annoyed.

“Your dumb face always looks weird,” she shoots back, lifting one eyebrow. “Dinner’s just about ready. Mom’s got the formal dining room all ready to go. And, yes,” she adds with a smile, “John is staying for dinner.”

Donna ushers Felicity towards the door, chattering about the excessive number of spoons on the table.

“Felicity,” Oliver says. He can’t just let this drop; he can’t leave things this unresolved. He won’t make it through dinner. He still can’t take a full breath.

Felicity stops and turns back, giving him a measured look. “We’ll finish this later,” she says with a small, uncertain smile. “Okay?”

Donna and Thea are watching him curiously, and Felicity seems at least a little skittish about having this conversation right here and right now. Oliver has no choice but to agree. “Okay,” he says. Reluctantly, he watches Felicity walk away.

 

END CHAPTER ELEVEN


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

Felicity wakes with a strangled gasp, tangled in the sheets and trembling with fear. She fights her way free, at least partially. And then she’s sitting up, shivering in the sudden the chill of the night air through the thin cotton of her t-shirt, the blankets pooled in her lap.

“Felicity?”

She whirls to see Oliver beside her, hands aloft in a calming gesture. It’s dim in the room, only enough light to reveal that he’s sitting atop the covers with his back against the headboard. His face is turned towards her, but shadowed; it’s hard for her to make out the details of his expression in the dark, but she can _feel_  that he’s watching her carefully. “It’s just me,” he says, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

With a sharp exhale, she glances around, reorienting herself -- she’s in his bedroom at the mansion. _Their_  bedroom. Whatever. She’s groggy in that way that tells her she’s been asleep for a while.

The rest starts to come back to her. She’d retreated just after dinner -- a strange, mildly strained affair with stilted conversation, an oddly accommodating Moira Queen, and annoyingly sympathetic looks from everyone else at the table. And an unbearably awkward, reticent Oliver, who’d alternated between staring at his plate and stealing glances at her. It’d been so unnerving that she’d pled exhaustion and left them to their dessert.

It wasn’t even a lie -- she _had_ been emotionally and physically exhausted after a mostly sleepless night in jail and a world-shaking, adrenaline-soaked afternoon.

Never _mind_  the fact that Oliver had kissed her because he’d wanted to. _Whatever that meant_. Considering their aborted conversation just before dinner, she’d half-expected Oliver to follow her immediately.

Instead, she’d been left in peace long enough to brush her teeth, twist her hair into a messy bun, and change into a t-shirt and pajama pants. As she’d settled in bed with her tablet, she’d done her best to gird herself for the inevitable awkward conversation with Oliver.

She’s not sure when he’d arrived, because apparently she’d dropped almost immediately into a deep sleep. “Oops,” she mutters.

“Felicity?” Oliver prompts, leaning forward a bit. She can barely see him in the darkness. Plus, she’s not wearing her glasses. Basically, he’s a vague, Oliver-shaped figure, his familiar face an abstract study in light greys. But she doesn’t even need to see him to know exactly which watchful expression matches that particular worried tone.

“I’m okay,” she tells him, and it’s mostly true. She has felt unsettled, _untethered_  for days, and exhausted on top of that. She’s slightly more rested now, but her mind is still racing. She takes a slow breath and adds, “Bad dream.”

She can see the bob of his head when he answers, “I can understand that.”

Her heart doesn’t feel like it’s going to pound out of her chest anymore, and she shifts, stretching a bit. Her forgotten loose bun flops with the movement, and she reaches up to confirm it’s now lopsided and half undone; she tugs out the elastic and finger-combs a few tangles, smoothing it back. Then she shifts, wriggling back and readjusting her pillows until she’s sitting against the backboard beside him, a safe foot or so of space between them. “Uh, what time is it?”

“A little before three,” he answers quietly. She’s not looking at him, but she can feel the weight of his presence, of his attention.

“Have you slept?” she wonders.

“No.” His tone is closed off, and he immediately shifts the focus back to her. “There’s water on the nightstand if you want it,” he tells her.

“Oh.” Suddenly thirsty, she turns away from him, twisting to reach the glass. She takes several long gulps of water, then puts the glass back with a thunk. Her head throbs a bit, the dull protestation of a past day or so of mild dehydration. She lifts the glass and drains the rest.

When she straightens again, she angles herself so she can study Oliver -- her eyes have adjusted enough to the dim light to see that he’s wearing a light t-shirt and dark sweatpants, barefoot. His face is still too shadowed for her to read him the way she normally does. “Oliver, why are you sitting up in bed instead of lying down _sleeping_?” she asks.

“You weren’t sleeping well for a while there,” he tells her. “I was -- I hope it’s okay -- I rubbed your back a few times,” he shrugs, “it seemed to help bring you out of the nightmares.”

Her cheeks heat, and she’s grateful for the lack of light in the room. It provides cover for her embarrassment, but there’s also a quiet kind of intimacy in the air around them. They’ve slept in the same bed a couple nights already, but they’ve never done this; they’ve never conversed in low voices, sharing their thoughts under cover of darkness. It worries her how natural this feels; how much she _likes_  it; how much more difficult it’s going to be when the walls between them are rebuilt. “I don’t mind,” she assures him. “Thank you.”

“I wish I could do more,” he confesses in a low, sad tone, ducking his chin. “I’m sorry he got his hands on you.”

She frowns at the peculiarity of his phrasing. “That wasn’t your fault, Oliver.” She pauses, waiting stubbornly for him to meet her gaze again. When he does, she offers him a small smile. “We had no way of knowing he’d be there today.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Yesterday, I guess.”

Oliver reaches out, so tentatively, to touch the bare skin of her bicep, just below the sleeve of her sleep shirt. When she doesn’t flinch away, he trails his fingertips down along her elbow, just below where her arm is still achy and sore from Cooper’s angry grip. “There are finger marks on your skin,” he tells her in this haunted, sorrowful tone. His fingers slip under her elbow, gently urging her to lift her arm. And then he leans closer, bending to press a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of her upper arm; it makes her shiver, but he simply straightens and asks, “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Captivated by this strange moment between them, she shakes her head almost reflexively. The unexpectedly sweet kiss to her bruised skin brings to mind very vividly the fact that he’d kissed her earlier and they’ve yet to talk about it. “He didn’t hurt me anywhere else,” she explains, her voice high and a little thready, “but disarming people is kind of painful.”

He huffs a rusty laugh. “I didn’t have a great angle -- you used your knee?”

She nods. “Well, my thigh,” she corrects, flushing at the thought of him kissing her thigh. She is almost positive she would spontaneously combust. Her palms press down hard on the blankets covering her lap, mostly to keep herself from reaching for him. Then she considers his phrasing. “Angle?” she echoes. “Where were you?”

“In the ceiling,” he answers, “waiting for Dig’s signal to jump down.”

Felicity stills, eyes wide. “You were in the ceiling?” She’s not sure why she’s surprised to hear that. She’d known at the time that Oliver and Diggle would come for her, but they’d been on a coffee run, not a mission. “Oliver, you were in a suit. An expensive suit. A _suit_  suit.”

“I’m aware,” he agrees, his tone amiable. “I’m pretty sure those pants are ruined. But it doesn’t matter, Felicity. I’ll always come for you if you’re in trouble. _Always_ ”

She’ll realize later that his words are a kind of confession but in the moment she’s still working through her fragmented memories from Buzzzzz, trying to piece together what he’s telling her. “But then how did you get inside so quickly? You were there right after Detective Lance.”

He shrugs, letting out an unsteady laugh. “I ran very fast.” Somehow, it’s this unguarded admission of how desperate he’d been to get to her that unlocks the strange paralysis she’s been feeling since he kissed her, like he’s answered a question she hadn’t yet figured out how to ask.

Felicity twists towards him, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck to pull him closer. His skin is warm beneath her palm, and she can see his wide, surprised eyes trained on her right before she kisses him.

She’s not tentative this time. She’s not stunned, and there are no watchful eyes to be mindful of -- it’s just him and her, alone in the dark. When he responds with enthusiasm, she lets herself fall into it. Her mind, which has been processing and churning through the tumultuous events of the past few days, just... eases to a stop, and all she can focus on is what Oliver sparks in her.

Or maybe what they spark in each other.

She’s been strongly, unshakably attracted to Oliver since they first met, but she’s never been _quite_  convinced the deep lust is mutual. But the way he’s touching her right now, the ferocious way he’s kissing her -- yeah, he’s definitely attracted to her. The confirmation is more than a little gratifying. It also amps up her arousal.

He’s got one arm around her back, tugging her closer, and the other cupping her jaw. He tilts his head just a bit more, and there are a hundred questions she should ask about this thing between, but he opens his mouth to her and her mind fizzes. When she feels the hot slide of his tongue against hers, when she gently bites his bottom lip and he responds with a throaty moan that curls her toes, she can’t make herself pull back or slow down or think about what this means. She just -- she needs this; she needs something good.

She needs Oliver, because no matter what they are to each other, he’s always felt like _safety_.

Despite the awkward way they’re propped up against the headboard at the outset, the simmering awareness between them sparks very quickly, overwhelming her with heat. She’s trapped beneath the covers, but scoots down just enough to pull him half onto her anyway. She craves the feel of his body on hers, the warm, firmness of his chest pressed to hers; she can’t get close enough.

Oliver is an excellent kisser -- so good that she can’t focus enough to find a more comfortable position. Her shoulder is wedged against the headboard, and his heavy thigh is thrown across her knees, and she wants to press every inch of her body against his, but _can’t_  unless they move.

Still, when Oliver leans back and breaks their kiss, she actually makes a strange little noise of protest and clutches at him with grabby hands. But he retreats only long enough to flip the covers off of her legs. She doesn’t even have time to shiver in the cool night air before he’s leaning back in to kiss her. He slides one arm around her shoulders and one beneath her knees, shifting her down the bed to lie flat.

“Yes, good,” she mumbles her approval into his mouth, because she can’t be bothered to stop kissing him. The covers are crumpled beneath her shins, but she barely notices, because Oliver maneuvers himself onto his hip beside her, leaning over her upper body. When his hand lands on her side, trailing down, down, down, she twists her hips, throwing her thigh up and over his legs, eliminating most of the space between their bodies.

“Felicity,” he mutters against her lips, his hand skimming the lines of her body. He shifts closer, his heavy thigh pressing between her legs, and she moans her response.

She’s got fistfuls of his t-shirt in her hands, torn between urging him closer and tearing the material off of him. He breaks the kiss long enough to tug his shirt off, and her palms go immediately to his chest. He’s breathing hard, looking down at her with dark eyes as she traces the lines of his impossible body. He’s even more beautiful like this; she can feel the thickness of scars and the firmness of his sculpted muscles beneath her fingers as she caresses him. The warmth of his flesh, solid and unmistakable beneath her fingertips, is the only thing tethering her to reality -- she’s having trouble believing that this is actually happening.

“Felicity,” he manages, his hand landing on her hip and sliding beneath her shirt, warm palm landing on the skin of her abdomen. His touch makes her shiver. “Why did you kiss me?” he asks.

She wants to explain, she really does. She wants to have a long, logical, very adult conversation about exactly how complicated it will be between them if they have sex now that they’re fake-married. She wants to know whether this is what he truly wants, or if it’s him trying to be _more_  -- she wants him to promise that he won’t retreat later. But all of that is very difficult to focus on when her arousal is turned up to eleven and she can feel his abs clench beneath her appreciative fingers.

And there is a small, scared part of her that’s afraid of the answer she’ll get if she manages to ask the question.

So she trails her fingernails up along his chest and loops her arm around his neck. Their faces are inches apart, close enough so that she can see the lust and the uncertainty in his eyes.

She smiles. “I kissed you because I wanted to,” she answers breathlessly, hoping it’s enough to parrot his own words back to him.

He grins down at her. “Okay,” he says with what sounds like relief, and then dives back into all the great kissing. Only now he’s got his warm hands sliding along her skin, and he’s making her shake and shiver with anticipation as he works her shirt up. She can feel his erection against her thigh, and shifts her leg to make him groan.

She smiles into their kiss, and he nips at her lip in playful retaliation. Easing down a few inches, he presses kisses along her jaw, down the line of her neck, pausing briefly to suck the tender skin just below her ear until she’s writhing with the sensations. She will go to her grave remembering the warm puff of air against her damp skin when he chuckles at her reaction.

Felicity can’t stop talking now that he’s not occupying her mouth with searing kisses, and Oliver eggs her on; every new spot he kisses and caresses, he mutters, “Good?” or “Yeah?” or “Like this?” And he is a quick study.

It probably helps that she answers enthusiastically each time. “Definitely, yes, please, more of -- _oh_!” she says, and “Do not stop what you’re -- _God_  -- doing!” and “How is your mouth so _good_  at this?”

That last one sets him laughing against the sensitive skin above her hipbone, and she swears she might orgasm just from the lustful delight in his tone when he answers, “You inspire me.”

Suddenly determined, Felicity reaches down and wraps her hands around his biceps -- as far as her hands will _go_  around his biceps anyway -- and tugs. Oliver comes willingly, settling half on top of her and kissing her, wet and dirty and a little desperate. His considerable weight feels so good -- she loves the way he dwarfs her, the way his hard body presses her into the mattress.

Sliding her hands down his frame, Felicity dips her fingers into his sweats, into his boxer briefs, and gives that tight ass of his an appreciative squeeze. He grinds his hips forward, pressing himself against her leg.

She’s already more than ready for him, but Oliver seems content to continue his slow torture, kissing and sucking along her neck, her collarbone. She’s never considered how his incredible self-control would play out in bed before, but he just keeps exploring her torso no matter how much she writhes beneath him. He pushes her t-shirt up farther, teasing her nipple with his mouth. She arches into him, her head thrown back against the crumpled pillow, her body wound tight as a bow.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Move, move, move.”

He freezes for a moment, clearly puzzled by her words. But she shoves at his shoulder until he goes willingly onto his back, looking up at her with wide, dark eyes. Even shrouded by shadows, he’s gorgeous -- his broad chest moving rapidly as he tries to catch his breath, his sweatpants tented with his arousal. It’s not a sight she ever truly expected to see -- Oliver undone because of _her_.

She smiles at him, then reaches for the hem of her silly _Wines-day_  sleep shirt. Oliver sucks in a breath as she tugs it off, and he makes a wheezy noise of surprise when she reaches immediately for his sweatpants. But he lifts his hips for her, and she tugs his pants and boxers off, leaving him gloriously naked. She can’t help but take him in her hand, applying some pressure as she learns him, earning a gratifying series of guttural grunts from Oliver.

“Felicity,” he implores, bringing his hand to her thigh and squeezing. She beams down at him, delighted that _he’s_  the one begging now. And then she releases him, because, yeah, she wants him inside of her right now.

She pauses only to tug off her own pajama pants and panties, then swings her leg over him, settling on his abdomen. He half-sits to reach for her, his muscles doing really impressive, sexy things against her, and she leans down to kiss him like mad again. They are _so good_  at this kissing thing. Truly exceptional. His big, warm hands on her back, sliding down, skin on skin -- it makes her squirm. His erection bumps her ass, and she squirms a little more purposefully. “Oliver,” she breathes into his mouth, “please tell me you have condoms.”

“Yes,” he agrees, smiling against her lips. “Hold tight.” His arm bands tight around her back, flattening her chest to his, and then he’s moving, somehow rolling them over so she’s on her back and he lands in the cradle of her hips. It’s instinctual the way she pulls up her knees in invitation. His hips surge, pressing his cock against her wetness, bumping up against her clit and making her gasp. Pausing in his quest, he dips forward, kissing her again.

“Condom,” she manages, lightly scraping her nails along his back to get his attention.

He lifts his chest off of her and leans to the side, fumbling in the drawer of his nightstand. She can’t quite pay attention, though, because he’s _so close_  to where she wants him, heavy and hot and hard, and she can’t stop rolling her hips, searching for pressure.

Then Oliver’s back, kissing her desperately. Felicity’s blissfully overwhelmed by everything -- the feel of his big, hard body pressing hers to the mattress, the familiar scent of _Oliver_ , the warm skin beneath her palms as she strokes his back.

Oliver pulls back, and somehow he’s up on his knees tearing the condom open, his broad chest backlit by the faint moonlight streaming in the windows. The sight makes her whole body clench with anticipation. After her rolls the condom on, he pauses, his hands stroking along her thighs as he gazes down at her. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

Felicity presses her lips together against the sudden wave of emotion. She’s been floating along on lust and the strength of their connection, but at moments like this, she thinks maybe his feelings for her aren’t entirely dissimilar to the way she feels about him.

And then Oliver shifts, widening his knees and slipping his hands under her hips to tilt her pelvis, and all attempts at higher brain function cease. She feels him at her entrance and moans in anticipation. She gets a hand on his elbow and tugs; he comes eagerly, kissing her with that focused ferocity even as she reaches between them and urges him inside.

She exhales on a breathy little laugh when she feels his hard length sliding into her. The pressure is delicious; just this side of too much, and as soon as he’s in all the way, he’s pulling back, moving against her in long, even strokes. He lifts his mouth from hers, sliding back down to that spot just below her ear. She’s moving with him, in counterpoint to his tantalizingly slow strokes.

“Felicity,” he breathes, pressing his face against her neck. He has one hand on her leg, pressing it against his torso, and the other slides under her body, and there’s something different about the way he’s holding her, the way he’s saying her name. Felicity can’t focus, can’t _think_  when she’s so strung out on pleasure. The waves build with every touch, every stroke, and she can’t stop moving beneath him, lifting into his rhythm. Her hands trace lines on his back, savoring the feel of his hard muscles shifting beneath her fingers as he fucks her.

“Oliver,” she moans, slipping a hand between their bodies, reaching for her clit, desperate for the orgasm she can feel coalescing.

Oliver watches her fingers and gives a hard jerk of his hips. “Fuck,” he says, pausing as deep as he can go. Then he reaches back for her leg, pulling it down straight alongside his.

Felicity yelps as he rolls them over. He lands on his back, his gaze intent on her face. He cups her cheeks, tugging her down for a searing kiss.

“Oh,” she says when he drops his head back down to the mattress. “Okay, this is...” She nods, swiveling her hips a little because she has to _move_. “This is good.” Bracing her hands on his chest, Felicity shifts atop him, planting her knees for leverage. When she pushes herself more upright, they both groan at the sensations. “Yes,” she whispers, letting her head drop back as he eyes slip shut. She’s got her hands on his chest as she starts to ride him, nearly mindless with pleasure.

Oliver’s attention shifts as she moves -- palming her breasts, skimming her thigh, cupping her ass. Each touch brings her closer to the edge. When he teases his fingers up her inner thigh, she actually _whimpers_. She might even be embarrassed about it, except that Oliver gives a desperate little whine and starts thrusting up to meet her movements.

Neither of them last much longer -- he’s got his talented fingers moving fast against her clit and she’s got her nails digging little crescents into his pecs; they’re moving together in hard, desperate thrusts.

“Felicity,” Oliver mutters, and the tension in his voice winds her up even more. “Felicity, you gotta come for me.”

“Yes.” She nods, speeding up until a starburst of pleasure hits her, waves of bliss radiating through her body as she arches back, laughing a little because holy shit, everything feels so good. She’s shaking with it, pleasure buzzing along every nerve ending. She’s only half aware of Oliver’s big hands clutching her thighs, holding her still as he bucks up into her a few more times and then stiffens with a low, guttural groan.

He gasps what she’s pretty sure is her name, his voice broken and breathless, and then runs his hands up her sides, palming her shoulderblades and urging her down onto his chest.

Felicity goes willingly, her breath coming in pants, her body warm, a little sweaty, and a _lot_  satisfied as she shifts, easing off of him and curling against him. They’re both breathing hard, coming back down to earth from some truly impressive orgasmic heights, and she finds herself smiling against his skin. Seeing Oliver like this -- _feeling_  him like this -- it’s more than she ever expected.

Oliver turns his head. “Hey,” he says, and kisses her sweetly, before he shifts, rolling away to take care of the condom. When he comes back, he basically wraps himself around her, wordlessly urging her to shift until he’s spooning her from shoulders to ankles with his big, hard body. He tugs the covers up, cocooning them in warmth.

Humming contentedly in her ear, Oliver slings an arm around her waist and pulls her just that much closer.

“So,” Felicity says, smiling into the dark as she relives some of the amazing things she just did with the man she’s basically completely in love with and thought she would never, ever have, “that happened.” She feels giddy. Buoyant. Like she might just float away without the comforting weight of his arm around her midsection.

“Mmmm,” Oliver hums sleepily, “glad it did.” He presses a kiss to her shoulder.

Felicity is still warm and fuzzy with the incredible orgasm Oliver just gave her, and more than a little stunned that, yeah, _Oliver just gave her an incredible orgasm_ , because honestly wow. She grins into the darkness, shifting her arm to lie atop his, rubbing her thumb against his wrist.

Her body is tingling and blissed out, but her brain is starting coming back online, and she has about three million questions about what happens _next_.

“Oliver?” she asks quietly. “We should probably...” She pauses, making a face. “Talk about this.” That sounds a little needy, all things considered, but holy frak, she and Oliver just had sex. Really good sex. Like, _phenomenal_  sex, actually, but they don’t do that.

Well, they do that. Just not with each other.

Normally.

Except that they _definitely_  just did it. With each other. They did it _really_  well.

So now what?

Are they going to _keep_  doing that? Preferably like a lot? Or was this just a comforting, friends with benefits-kind of thing? Between two people who are only technically -- _tactically_  -- married to each other?

God, this is complicated.

Felicity feels the first cold threads of anxiety creeping in as she waits for his response.

“‘Kay,” he answers belatedly, and the utter drowsiness in his voice reminds her that he hasn’t slept yet tonight. In fact, she’s willing to bet he didn’t sleep much last night while she was in jail, either. He’s probably about as exhausted right now as she was before she fell asleep just after dinner. _Plus_  post-coital.

When he doesn’t add anything, she frowns -- did he already fall asleep? “Oliver?” she whispers.

He shifts slightly, his leg pressing against the back of her thigh. “Love you,” he mutters.

Felicity stiffens against him, eyes wide open, all of her sexually sated chill _gone_ , because -- did Oliver just--?

“What?” she whisper-shouts.

She stares at the drapes, holding her breath as she waits for Oliver to answer. Instead, he snores lightly, and Felicity lets out a frustrated groan.

Because _frak_  -- she just had sex with Oliver. _Oliver_. Her unattainably attractive friend and partner, and also her totally-fake husband, and _now_  what?

& & &

Oliver wakes slowly, a gradual awareness seeping in.

He knows three thing before he’s fully awake: it’s far later than he usually sleeps, he’s not alone in this bed, and he had sex last night. Really good sex, in fact. His body feels warm and sated and, strangest of all, _well-rested_.

When he inhales, the newly familiar scent of Felicity’s conditioner hits him, and he’s smiling even as he opens his eyes, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the windows. From the quality of the light, he’s pretty sure it’s after eight, which is a minor miracle, since he usually has trouble sleeping past six.

He expects Felicity to be lying beside him, but he finds himself staring at her blanket-covered legs instead. Shifting, he looks up to find her sitting with her back against a wall of pillows mashed against the headboard, her hands stilled over tablet in her lap as she stares down at him with wide, panicky eyes. It’s a little disquieting to realize she’s been awake for quite some time as he slept on beside her, like a strange reversal of last night, when he’d stayed up, keeping watch over her until she woke.

Mostly, he’s amazed he slept so soundly in her presence, though he supposes he’s always known that Felicity is not a threat.

Oliver ignores the nervous fluttering sensation in his chest and slings his arm over her blanket-covered lap, which pulls a little gasp from her. She’s luminous in the warm sunshine -- her hair falling in messy waves over her shoulders, that sprinkling of freckles visible across her nose, and her lips bare and pale pink. The intimacy of the moment isn’t lost on him; he drinks in the sight and says, “Morning.”

“Hi,” she says, her voice high and a little thready. She’s watching him cautiously, and he recognizes that she’s struggling to figure out how to act this morning. “Uh, I mean, good morning.”

He slides his hand up to her hip and tugs gently, wanting her closer. Also, he’s not sure exactly what to say to soothe her nerves, but instinctively he knows he can _show_  her how he feels. When she just stares down at him, brow furrowed slightly, he rolls up onto his elbow. “C’mere,” he says, letting his hand drift up her back, urging her to meet him halfway.

“Oh,” she says, dipping towards him, despite the vaguely panicky look on her face. “Right. We, uh-- Yeah, this is new. _Good_  new, but--”

He huffs a laugh and closes the distance between them. It’s hard to kiss her while smiling, but he can’t seem to control the strange, warm feeling in his chest. He feels... _content_ , maybe even happy, here in this bed with the woman he loves.

The moment is a revelation for him. He’s been convinced for _so_  long that this kind of life isn’t possible for him; that he’s too damaged, too single-minded, too devoted to his mission to have time for a real relationship. He’s been home long enough to know that dividing his life in half and trying to maintain both distance and balance between his nighttime activities and a woman who knows only his public face is unworkable -- for at least a dozen different reasons.

Maybe his mistake has always been assuming he could fall in love with a woman who was wholly separate from his mission.

Or maybe he’d just spent the last year missing the obvious. Because loving Felicity? That isn’t new. Letting himself _feel_  it, and being able to touch her, kiss her, _express_  that love -- that’s what is making him happier than he’s been in years.

He can’t get enough of this feeling.

Oliver loops his arm around her back and brings her even closer. And much like the night before, what starts as a simple kiss sparks very quickly into something much more intense. She’s tentative at first, bent towards him at an awkward angle, one hand clutching his shoulder, but when he leans into the kiss, she melts against him.

Relieved, Oliver drops back to the mattress, kicking the covers away as he eases her down to him. The cool plastic of her tablet lands against his ribcage, and she’s half draped over him, her hands tucked beneath his back, her fingers digging into him in a very gratifying manner.

When he runs short on oxygen, he pulls his mouth from hers and takes a few calming breaths. Running his hands along her back, he discovers she’s pulled her t-shirt back on, along with her panties, but not her pajama pants. He can’t resist cupping her incredible ass, and she gasps, opening her eyes and looking down at him from inches away, her blonde hair creating a warm curtain around them. She still looks a little uncertain, but he takes heart that she doesn’t pull away. In fact, her gaze is direct and intent on his, because she’s always been brave enough to face things head on.

He hopes she can see he’s trying, because Felicity is everything he wants. “Good morning,” he repeats, his voice so low it’s nearly a whisper. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” She nods. “ _You_  certainly slept well,” she adds, arching an eyebrow. Her tone is teasing, and he can’t help but kiss her again, making himself keep it relatively brief.

“I did,” he agrees, rubbing his palm along her spine. “I was very relaxed.” She holds his gaze, but her cheeks flush a little at his words, and Oliver grins at her. “You’re beautiful.”

“Yeah, well, you’re all--” She tips her head and lets her appreciative gaze drift down to his chest-- “ _You_. Your morning breath isn’t even that bad.” She sounds so put out by this realization that he’s amused instead of offended.

Oliver cups the back of her head, leaning up to press soft kisses along her throat, relishing the little whimper she makes when he reaches the underside of her jaw. “Morning breath, huh?” he murmurs into her skin. Then he gently rolls them to the side, maneuvering carefully so as not to break the tablet between them. He kisses her swiftly then rolls out of bed, tossing a playful, “Don’t move!” over his shoulder.

It doesn’t escape his notice that Felicity’s eyes are glued to his nude body as he walks away. Quickly, he brushes his teeth, washes his face, and relieves himself. His image in the mirror is striking -- the heaviness, the weight he’s carried for years in the tension of his body is nowhere near as pronounced as it has been. Her positive effect on him is visible.

While he’s washing his hands, he hears the sound of Felicity’s voice over the running water but can’t quite make out what she’s saying. “Just a sec!” he shouts, moving quickly, eager to get back to her, to pick up where they so pleasantly left off.

Which is how he ends walking back out into the bedroom, buck naked, only to stop short when he sees a very surprised John Diggle standing near the doorway.

“Oh, frak,” Felicity whispers into the sudden silence.

And then Diggle spins around. “Man, _what_  the hell?” he complains, turning a glare Felicity’s way, who’s sitting in the bed with the covers pulled demurely around her hips, blushing a bright, fierce red. “You could’ve warned me,” Diggle chides.

While Felicity splutters her way through an answer, Oliver retreats to the bathroom to grab a towel, wrapping it around his waist before returning to the bedroom. Undaunted by the awkward silence, Oliver crosses to the bed, urging Felicity to scoot towards the center and sitting by her hip. So settled, he turns a challenging look to Diggle. “Maybe we should discuss the value of knocking on a married couple’s door,” he suggests, ignoring the embarrassed whine from Felicity at his words.

Diggle glares at him. “I did knock. Your _wife_  told me to come in.”

Exasperated, Oliver turns to Felicity. “Did I not make it clear I was coming right back to bed?”

She presses those kiss-swollen lips together and flushes some more. She’s irresistible like this, particularly when her eyes narrow and she glares at him. “I said ‘Come on in, Dig’ _really_  loudly!” she protests. “I didn’t expect you to still be naked!”

Oliver quirks an eyebrow, amused. “You threw my boxers over there last night,” he points out, indicating the far side of the bed. “How was I--?”

“Okay,” Diggle interjects, a look of clear distaste on his face. “I will cheerfully go the rest of my life with no additional details of your sex lives, okay?”

“Sorry, John,” Felicity squeaks.

Oliver isn’t particularly sorry, he’s more disgruntled that round two is apparently going to have to wait. Though now that the immediate fog of lust has receded, he’s pretty sure he and Felicity need to have a conversation what they are to each other. She still seems uncertain around him, which bothers him. He thought he’d made himself perfectly clear last night -- he’s always been better with actions than with words -- but he’s not convinced she understood.

He worries that his inept attempts to explain his feelings will only make things worse, but this fledgling relationship with Felicity is far too important for Oliver to leave it to chance. So he will try to untangle the words that get stuck on his tongue and tell her that he wants this; that he wants her. He will tell her that he loves her.

But that’s not a conversation that requires spectators, so first he needs to know why Diggle is here. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Gerald,” Diggle begins, crossing his arms, “he works security at QC. He called to let me know that several Board members have arrived to the office this morning.”

Fuck. Oliver straightens, glancing down at Felicity, who’s already reaching for her tablet. “Isabel?” he guesses.

Dig nods. “Already in the building.”

Felicity lays her hand on his arm. “Go,” she tells him. He tilts his head, asking without words why she’s not including herself in this plan, and she flushes. “I need to shower. I can’t show up with sex hair,” she whispers, but from Diggle’s pained noise, her words carried. She scrunches up her nose in embarrassment but presses on. “Go ahead. I’ll catch a cab.”

Oliver hesitates, torn. He doesn’t want to leave this bed for another week at least, but he feels a responsibility to the company. He can tell from the supportive look on Felicity’s face that she understands, because she is privy to all facets of his life, and understands who he is to his core. And _accepts_  him anyway.

He leans in, giving her a slow, sweet kiss, trying to pour all of his strong feelings into it. She’s stiff against him, and he hopes it’s mostly due to Diggle being in the room, and not because she’s unsure of him. “Okay,” he tells her, pulling back the slightest bit and catching her gaze. “Come find me when you get to QC.” He pushes himself up from the bed, then turns back to her. “Wait, actually, you don’t need to come into the office.”

“Cooper’s in jail,” Felicity says, addressing his unspoken concern for her safety. “I’ll be fine in a cab.”

Oliver hesitates, but before he can answer, Diggle clears his throat. “I’ll just be downstairs. Let the two of you...” he trails off. “Do whatever it is you’re doing.”

Oliver sighs. “Give me ten minutes to get dressed.” As Diggle leaves, closing the bedroom door behind him, Oliver turns back to Felicity. And then sucks in an unsteady breath, because she has just thrown back the covers and swung those long, bare legs out of bed. When she stands, the t-shirt hem hits her just at the hips, leaving her purple lace boyshorts on tantalizing display. He takes a step towards her.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Felicity warns, holding up a hand between them. She’s fighting a smile, though, and her gaze is warm and inviting, so Oliver takes another step and reaches for her hand.

Gently, he tugs her closer. They’re inches apart, her fingers tangled in his, and Oliver leans down -- she’s so much shorter than him without her heels -- and kisses her.

“Mmm,” she hums against his lips. “Minty fresh.”

Oliver huffs a laugh, straightening, but keeping careful hold of her hand. “I’m sorry I have to leave so quickly,” he tells her. “Have dinner with me tonight.” It’s absurd how nervous he feels asking, considering the way they’ve spent the past several hours. But there’s so much riding on making things work with Felicity that waiting for her answer feels torturous.

Her beautiful blue eyes go round. “Dinner?” she echoes, her head tilting. “Like a date?”

It feels like there are a dozen hummingbirds in his chest, flitting around, which is incredibly distracting. “Yes,” he tells her, breathing through the nerves, “exactly like a date.”

“Oh,” she says, her lips holding the shape for a moment. Then she beams at him. “Okay.”

Oliver takes a relieved breath, the tight nervousness in his chest easing. “Okay. We’ll talk,” he tells her, and he can’t resist kissing her once more.

When he straightens, she’s watching him carefully, like she’s still not quite sure of this. He glances at the bedroom door and reconsiders going into QC, but Felicity reads him immediately and pulls her hand free. “Go,” she tells him. “Put some clothes on.”

He lets his gaze drift down her frame appreciatively. “I’d rather not,” he tells her.

Her smile is more confident this time. “Duty calls,” she reminds him primly, and then turns and heads to the bathroom.

He definitely takes the opportunity to appreciate her ass in those boyshorts. “Felicity,” he says as she reaches the door. She glances back, eyebrows raised in question. “Please, just... be careful.”

She smiles at him. “You, too,” she says, and pulls the door shut between them.

Oliver closes his eyes, lets himself think about the feel of Felicity, the taste of her, and the fact that he’s able to touch her whenever he wants to now. The realization is surprisingly liberating. He takes a breath, then heads to the walk-in closet to pull on a suit.

Tonight, he will take Felicity on a date, tell her that he loves her, and ask her if they can give this thing between them a real shot. But first, he needs to deal with Isabel.

& & &

Felicity spins herself up into quite a state after Diggle and Oliver leave for QC.

Which is probably understandable -- her sleep schedule is all wonky, she _had sex with Oliver_ , he just asked her on a date, and she’s been awake since about 3 a.m. There’e only so much a long, hot shower, a fancy blow dryer, and carefully applied makeup can do for her mental state. She channels her need to control _something_  into making sure her appearance is flawless.

She skips the ponytail, leaving her hair down in loose waves, and goes for artfully fresh-faced, no-makeup-look makeup. Someone -- possibly Diggle? -- has made sure a selection of her clothes are hanging there in Oliver’s ridiculously large closet. She gamely ignores the way her pulse picks up at the sight of their things intermingled and picks the kicky magenta dress that makes her feel confident.

By the time she climbs into the cab to head over to QC, she feels... mostly good. A little nervous, a lot awkward, but mostly okay. And then the cab pulls through the high security gates at the edge of the Queen property, and a horde of paparazzi engulfs the car, running alongside to snap pictures of her. The cab picks up speed, and some of them retreat to their cars and motorcycles to follow her all the way to the office.

The cab drops her at the front entrance of the high-rise, which means she has to navigate getting herself out of the car while a wall of cameras snap pictures of her. She moves carefully, irrationally worried about upskirt pictures, so she keeps her dress modestly around her knees and swings her legs out to press her heels into the pavement. The cabbie doesn’t offer to help; he just watches her in the rearview mirror as she pushes to her feet, ignoring the obnoxious and offensive questions shouted at her.

Like, “Did you have a girlfriend in prison?”

Also, “How far along are you?”

And who could forget, “How does it feel to be such a successful gold digger?”

She’s pretty sure that last guy is the same charming specimen who made the crack about how she’d _earned_  her diamond ring -- the very question that set her tactical marriage to Oliver in progress in the first place. She makes a mental note to find out this jerk’s name and make his life a little more interesting.

Felicity tips her chin a notch higher, keeping her eyes wide and a neutral expression on her face. She won’t give them the satisfaction of reacting, not even when the QC security guards have to intervene because the paparazzi have clogged the front entrance, temporarily trapping her in a crowd of hostile, shouting, camera-wielding, amoral gossip hounds.

Before she can panic at the feeling of being surrounded by hostility, Charlie and Tyrone are by her side, elbowing a path clear for her; she slips inside and exhales in relief.

When she steps off of the elevator onto the executive floor, she finds her desk just as she left it before her trip to Central City. Which feels like weeks and weeks ago at this point. As she approaches, dumping her bag onto the desktop with a relieved sigh, she notices Diggle flipping through the newspaper in the visitor chairs in Oliver’s office. Oliver himself is, she can see, in the Board room meeting with -- Felicity scans the room -- yup, basically the entire Board. That’s not the best sign, and from the set of Oliver’s jaw, she can tell it’s not going great.

He glances over just then, meeting her gaze, and to her surprise, his gloomy expression softens. She lifts her hand and gives him what might be the actual dorkiest wave in the history of humankind, but the edge of his lips quirk in an answering almost-smile, and she lets herself relax just a little bit.

Then she notices Isabel’s glare, and decides she’ll just leave them to their own corporate-y devices.

After all, it’s not entirely clear whether she’s welcome back at her job yet, officially speaking. Sure, the prosecutor dropped the charges, but it’s not like HR has reached out to reassure her that she’s still actually _employed_. She’s pretty confident, considering she’s _married_  to the CEO, but... yeah. Everything in her life is pretty confusing at the moment.

Nervously, Felicity moves towards Diggle, shrugging out of her purple coat and straightening the skirt of her pink dress. “How’s it going in there?” she asks, hooking a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the Board room.

Diggle folds his newspaper and puts it aside. “No one’s thrown any punches yet.”

It’s not much of an answer, but Felicity laughs a little. Then he tips his head, studying her in a way that reminds her that he knows what she and Oliver were doing last night. Her cheeks heat up with embarrassment (and maybe a bit of arousal) remembering Oliver striding out of the bathroom this morning stark naked and confident.

As he should be, considering the things he can do with that body of his. Not just Arrow-y things, but... very good things. Pleasurable things. Things that she has a newfound and quite keen appreciation for, no matter what ends up happening next.

Which is kind of the crux of the matter, after all -- what happens next?

Felicity thinks that she and Oliver are... _something_  now. Something more than just partners. Maybe. At the very least, they’re going on a date. _After_  they slept together, sure, but so what if they’re doing everything backwards? They’re technically _married_  already anyway. Ugh. Yes, it’s all very unsettled and confusing, leaving her to swing wildly between a giddy kind of hope and this strange, low dread that she’s read everything wrong and Oliver’s going to break her heart over cavier and lobster. Not that she likes caviar. Or lobster. But -- whatever. Fancy dinner and broken hearts is a definite possibility.

“Have a seat, Felicity,” Diggle offers, his tone pleasant, and she has the distinct impression that Diggle has some thoughts he’d like to share about her and Oliver and whatever this is that they’re doing.

With a groan, she drops into the chair across from him. “Dig,” she whines, “I don’t want to talk about what happened with Oliver last night.”

Diggle holds up both hands, mouth twisting in distaste. “Believe me, the last thing I want to hear about is what happened with you and Oliver last night.” And then, because John Diggle knows her better than most people, he leans forward, his forearms on his knees, and asks, “Are you okay?”

It’s a loaded question, and overly broad, considering the insanity of Felicity’s last 48 hours or so. She shouldn’t be surprised that her throat gets all tight and her eyes burn when she lets herself _feel_  the chaos churning in her gut. Her feelings are a big, confused, aching bundle, and the worst part is that most of it feels out of her hands.

She loves Oliver. And all she knows at this point is that he’s attracted to her, and has some feelings for her, the strength of which she’s not _quite_  sure about. There’s nothing she can do about that at the moment.

The tabloids are dying for this story, and printing all manner of true and false things about her, her past, and her character. There’s nothing she can do about that -- nothing _legal_  anyway. And her hacking options are severely limited by the fact that this story has reached saturation. CNN has a satellite truck parked outside the QC building.

Her ex-boyfriend is responsible for at least part of the insanity that’s descended upon her life the last week. There’s nothing she can do about that.

There’s nothing she can do about _most_  of the things bouncing around in her head, and she does not deal well when her life and her choices are reduced to _reacting_ to other things and other people.

On the other hand, she’s alive, she’s out of legal and physical danger, and she had some really good sex last night with the man of her dreams. So. Not everything is terrible.

Taking a steadying breath, she meets Diggle’s gaze. “Um,” she manages. “Yes?”

“Felicity,” Diggle chides. “A lot has happened in short order. I just want to know how you’re handling it.”

“I know,” she breathes, slumping back in her chair. She brings her hands to her face, tugging her glasses free and covering her eyes with her free hand. She’s not crying, but she feels raw, on edge, like the slightest push may make her cry. “I really am okay,” she tells Dig. “It’s just... a lot.”

She can hear the leather creak and his suit rustling as he moves, and she knows without opening her eyes that he’s come around to sit beside her. God, she loves John Diggle so much; he’s so compassionate and so kind to her, even when she’s spiraling. Maybe especially when she’s spiraling. “Felicity.”

Reluctantly, she drops her hands to her lap and turns her head enough to meet his kind gaze. “I don’t deal well with change.” It’s true, but probably a little vague.

“Not even good change?” Diggle asks, eyebrows quirked.

“Is this good change?” she retorts. Then she groans and covers her face again. “I don’t mean that. It’s... _really_  good.” She pauses, smirking at Diggle’s pained noise. “I didn’t mean the sex,” she tells him, “though, I mean, it definitely--“

“Felicity!” Diggle interjects. “Do not finish that thought.”

She straightens a little in her seat, turning to face him more directly. “What if this isn’t real?” she whispers. “What if he’s just mixing up proximity with,” she shrugs, “ _real_  feelings? What if he breaks my heart by accident?”

Diggle shakes his head as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Felicity Smoak, you are the smartest person I’ve ever met, why are you talking crazy?” He leans closer, his gaze intent. “Oliver wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

“Oliver _can’t_  lie to me,” she points out. Then she sighs. “You’re right. I shouldn’t borrow trouble.” She glances over at the clock. “I can wait ten hours. I can be patient.” She nods once, determined. “We’ll have food and we’ll talk and, whatever happens, I will deal with it.” But now Diggle looks a little angry, which is confusing. “Dig?”

“Wait,” he says slowly, “you and Oliver discussed this before you-- _before_ , right?”

Felicity freezes, eyes wide. “Um.” Because yeah, _no_ , they definitely didn’t discuss what any of this means. Well, sure, he’d said he kissed her because he wanted to, and he’d asked her out on a _date_  date, and he’d mumbled something that _might_  have sounded like “love you” as he drifted off to sleep, but for that last thing, he was exhausted and stressed and post-coital, and she will not hold him to it. The most she can offer Diggle is, “We’re out tonight. On a date. Like an *actual* date. And we’re going to talk then.”

And suddenly, Diggle is up and moving. “I’m going to _kill_  him.”

“What?” Felicity yelps. She jumps to her feet and takes off after him, grabbing his arm. But he, like Oliver, is way too big and strong to be deterred by her unless he decides to be. “John!” she yells, and she’s getting loud know.

At that, he stops and turns back to her, because John and Oliver are both fully aware that when she gets loud, she is not to be trifled with. She’s surprised by the anger in his face. “I know this was a terrible idea,” Diggle fumes.

Felicity recoils, hurt. “What?”

“Getting married,” he clarifies, softening when he sees her reaction. “No, Felicity--” He shakes his head. “You both have very strong emotions at play here. I knew one or both of you would get in over your heads if you didn’t have a serious conversation before this marriage, _tactical_  or not.”

Felicity is already shaking her head. “Dig, we didn’t--”

But loud voices from the entryway interrupt, and she and Diggle turn in concert to see Isabel and Oliver squaring off near Felicity’s desk. Oliver’s entire body is tense, his fingers twitching against his thumb, and she recognizes how close he is to the end of his patience. Isabel has her typical air of smug, condescending confidence, her arms crossed and her head tilted as she finishes whatever point she’s making.

Felicity storms past Diggle and out into the open area beside her desk. Oliver and Isabel don’t break their glaring contest, even as Felicity skids to a stop beside her husband. Oliver reaches out, touching her arm briefly, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Isabel.

“Hey,” Felicity demands. Loudly. “What’s going on? Why are you shouting?”

Isabel smiles, that cold, self-satisfied smile, and turns to Felicity. “Oliver’s angry that I outed him as the vigilante in front of the Board.” Then she leans closer. “And, yes, I know about your involvement, too.”

Eyes wide, Felicity turns to Oliver. “What?”

END CHAPTER TWELVE


	13. Chapter 13

Felicity’s shocked question hangs in the sudden silence, and Oliver makes himself take a calming breath before he answers her.

“Felicity, everything’s fine,” he says. It’s a lie -- or at the very least, vastly underselling the current situation with Isabel by a lot. She’d laid broad accusations that he’s the vigilante at his feet in the middle of the Board meeting, and he’d easily laughed it off as a retread of when the police tried to make the same stupid argument a year ago. Promptly dragging Isabel out of the Board room probably wasn’t the best follow up move, but he didn’t want things to escalate -- he knows he can still salvage his standing with the Board right now.

What’s more troubling is that Isabel let him pull her out of the room and she still seems unconcerned. Isabel is ruthless, and if she’s comfortable airing this in front of the Board here, now, today, that must mean she’s got something more than just words.

He just needs a moment to think; he needs to figure out what Isabel’s play is so that he can try to counter it. He needs to come up with something -- a plan, a strategy -- to protect everyone from whatever Isabel is attempting.

But Felicity clearly has no patience at the moment; she’s practically vibrating with energy as she protests, “Everything is _not_  fine, Oliver!” She steps right into his personal space, and he’s painfully aware that they’re still within sight -- and probably earshot -- of the curious Board members in the glass-walled conference room. He glances over at the conference room and sees most of the Board standing near the windows, unapologetically watching them.

Oliver catches Diggle’s gaze, and his partner nods, immediately moving towards Oliver’s office. Oliver reaches out, placing a hand on Felicity’s shoulder and turning her gently. “Let’s go in here for a minute,” he says, walking along with Felicity and letting Isabel trail behind.

Once inside his office, he moves to stand near Diggle by the visitor’s chairs.

“Isabel,” Oliver says, his jaw tense. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but we have more important issues--.”

“What’s more important than who you really are?” Isabel presses. “Especially when you’re in position to bring this entire company down.”

“Stock prices are off 20%,” Oliver points out, exasperated. “The investors aren’t happy. The Board isn’t happy. And if we have to start cutting costs, the employees won’t be happy, either. We need to focus on regaining the public trust and assuring them that we’ve come through this crisis. We need to stabilize the company!”

Isabel steps closer, tilting her head and staring at him with a guileless expression. She’s an infuriatingly good actress, and that concerns him even more -- she’ll be able to persuade the Board that she’s simply concerned about the company. “And you think _you’re_  equipped to do that?” Condescension drips from her words.

“Yes.”

“I disagree,” Isabel answers, her tone almost breezy now, as if this were some casual conversation and not the result of a heated confrontation at a Board meeting. “More importantly, the Board has every right to know that this company is currently under the control of a wanted criminal, don’t you think?”

Oliver opens his mouth to retort, but Felicity beats him to it. “And what about you?” she snaps, drawing Isabel’s venomous gaze. It’s clear that Felicity has reached the end of her rope, and Oliver knows that when she is angry or frustrated, she can deliver quite a verbal punch. That plus the mutual dislike between Felicity and Isabel makes this situation feel pretty volatile.

“What _about_  me?” Isabel retorts.

“Don’t you think the Board would be leery of handing control of the company over to a woman who’s willing to tank the stock prices in order to get her hands on more?” Felicity steps forward, and Oliver mirrors it, unwilling to leave her as Isabel’s sole target. “Aren’t all Board members and senior management supposed to have a fiduciary duty to the company?”

Isabel remains wholly unconcerned. “If you’re referring to _Snowbird_ \--”

“Snowfinch,” Felicity corrects.

“--the investigation very clearly traced those contacts back to _you_.”

Felicity bristles. “Yes, those _planted_  communications were so-very-neatly tied to my account,” she agrees, “as if someone with my facility with computers and security would be so _stupid_  as to send damning emails from my workstation here in the building in the first place. Also,” she continues, raising her voice when Isabel tries to interrupt, “I _built_  a good portion of the security controls for QC -- you think I don’t know what gets tracked?”

Isabel lifts an eyebrow. “So you’re admitting you could easily have leaked sensitive information? Should I call that nice FBI agent back in to reopen the investigation. What was his name -- Vasquez?”

“If it’d been me,” Felicity presses on, ignoring Isabel’s taunt, “if I were the kind of person who would leak sensitive corporate information for personal gain, which I am _not_ , by the way,” she adds, and Oliver lays his hand on her back, a cue to refocus. She snaps her jaw shut for a moment, nods once, and says, “If I actually _was_  the mole, the investigators wouldn’t even know about Snowfinch.” She drops her voice and adds, “And I certainly wouldn’t pick a stupid name like _Snowfinch_.”

Oliver shifts uncomfortably, because the more she talks about how easily she could do something like this, the more ammunition she’s giving Isabel to try to frame her again. “Felicity, I think we’re getting a little off-topic--” When she whips her head around to glare at him, Oliver reflexively lifts a hand to ward off her anger. “Okay.”

“The Snowfinch trail,” Felicity continues, turning back to Isabel, “is a layperson’s uneducated impression of how a hacker would leak information.”

For the first time, Isabel seems a little uncomfortable. She shifts her weight, crossing her arms as she considers her retort. “No matter what the public believes,” she tells Felicity, “you and I both know the story about how your arrest was a ploy to draw out your criminal of an ex-boyfriend is a lie. Criminal,” she repeats, flicking her gaze to Oliver. “I guess you really do have a type.”

“Apparently so do you,” Oliver interjects, partly because he needs to understand Isabel’s motivations, and partly to get her attention off of Felicity. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Isabel’s interactions with Felicity have almost always been edged with a very personal kind of dislike. He doesn’t understand it, can’t imagine what would’ve caused Isabel to hate Felicity, but the last thing he wants is for Isabel’s ire to be focused on his wife right now. He wants Isabel’s whole attention while he’s trying to corner her, so any vicious counterattacks are directed his way.

“A type?” Isabel echoes dismissively. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes a steadying breath, swallowing down the nausea, and goes on the attack. “Queen men. You slept with my father.” He’s not 100% sure of this, though he knows that his father had affairs. The understanding that his father may very well have slept with a pretty young intern, plus Isabel’s strange comment to him that day in his office led Oliver to a pretty reasonable conclusion. If he’s right, it may be the one thing that can throw someone as calculating as Isabel Rochev off-balance.

When Isabel sucks in a breath, Oliver knows he’s right about the affair between his father and Isabel. He has to look away and close his eyes while he absorbs the blow. He’s not even sure who he’s more disappointed in right now -- his father or himself.

Felicity inches closer, supporting him without words, and it helps. Though he thinks, yet again, that he can’t possibly deserve the love and support of a woman with such a kind heart.

For her part, Isabel glances at Diggle and Felicity, like she’s weighing her options. When she turns back to Oliver, she’s recovered some of her composure, but her expression is openly cruel. “I slept with _you_.”

Beside him, Felicity stiffens. Oliver knows that barb was aimed as much at Felicity as himself. He grits out, “Isabel.”

“You’re not bad,” Isabel continues, condescension dripping from her tone, “if somewhat... _inattentive_.” Her gaze shifts to Felicity, who makes a brief noise of disgust.

Oliver reaches over, taking Felicity’s hand in his, feeling a wave of relief when she doesn’t pull away. He hates that Isabel is talking about that goddamn twenty minute mistake in Moscow. He hates that she’s trying to use it as a weapon against Felicity, particularly at this moment, when things between he and Felicity are so... _unsettled_. But mostly, he hates himself for sleeping with Isabel, for running away from the feelings for Felicity that he’d been unwilling to face at the time.

Isabel watches Felicity, a challenging look in her eyes. It’s not until Felicity tips her head, refusing to back down, that Isabel turns back to Oliver. “With you, it was just sex. What Robert and I had was nothing like that forgettable toss in the sheets. I was your father’s _soulmate_.”

Every word she says lands harder than the one before, and Oliver can’t help but recoil from her claim. He’d always understood his father’s actions to be selfish; thoughtless. The cliched reaction of a married man with some standing when women make it clear that they’re _available_  to him. What Isabel is suggesting -- it can’t be true; the very idea of it is nauseating.

Even as a privileged teenager, Oliver had noticed the open attention paid by a surprising number of women to his father, to Malcolm Merlyn, to all reasonably well-groomed men of a certain class. He’s certainly not proud of it, but once that kind of attention had been turned his way, he’d fallen right into easy, fleeting nights of satisfaction. Who doesn’t like flattery and admiration? Who doesn’t want frequent sex -- sex basically whenever the urge hits?

This kind of ever-present opportunity is how Oliver had always thought about his father’s affairs. It made Oliver respect his father a little less, and made him empathize with his mother a little more. But no matter how Robert Queen had acted with other women, Oliver knows his father loved his mother. Which is why Oliver has never even considered the possibility that his father had engaged in anything other than liaisons, temporary affairs.

Is it possible Isabel is telling the truth? Could his father have fallen for someone else?

“No,” he says finally, but his voice is low and a little unsteady. Felicity presses closer, turning slightly and pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder. Her grip on his fingers tightens, and he draws strength from her.

“Yes,” Isabel counters, her smile positively vicious. If what she’s saying is true, she lost the man she loved, but there’s no trace of grief in her tone. She’s wielding this information like a weapon, lashing out at Oliver. “We were in love, and he was _supposed_  to leave your mother so that we could have the life we deserved together.”

Oliver’s chest clenches tighter. “Deserved,” he whispers with a disbelieving shake of his head. The presumptions, the entitlement in her phrasing -- it reminds Oliver of his most unfavorable characteristics from before the island. “He was supposed to leave us just because you wanted him to?”

“It was Robert’s idea,” Isabel tells him. She’s practically preening, relishing the opportunity to tell him things that will hurt him. “He loved me and wanted to be with me. Then your sister,” she continues, spitting the words now in her anger, “broke her arm, the poor little princess, and Robert had to rush home to comfort her. The next thing I knew, my internship was cancelled and for some unfathomable reason, he’d decided to stay with _you_.”

Oliver shakes his head, unable to summon any kind of response. What she’s saying is awful, putting a few more cracks into his memories of the man who raised him. It also puts his mother’s distaste for Isabel into a new light -- does his mother know the whole story? Had she stepped in, orchestrated Isabel’s banishment? Oliver remembers Thea’s injury; she fell off of her horse, and she was inconsolable that she wouldn’t able to ride for six weeks. He doesn’t remember anything specific about his father’s behavior around that time to shed light on Isabel’s story. His parents had always gone through cycles of fighting, and then frosty distance, and then reconciliation. It bothers him that he can’t distinctly remember what might have been one of the worst periods of estrangement if what Isabel’s saying is true.

“That’s what this is all about?” Felicity demands in that fierce way of hers, pulling Oliver from his tortured musings. He breathes her name, but Felicity has her sights set on Isabel and only squeezes his hand in response. “You were jilted years ago, and you’ve spent your entire career trying to -- what?” Felicity shrugs, “To take over Queen Consolidated?”

“It should’ve been mine,” Isabel insists with the cold, selfish logic of the truly irrational. Her expression is fierce, her speech impassioned, and Oliver recognizes that Isabel’s actions to date have all been designed to claim what she believes should be hers. There will be no reasoning with her on this point. “Robert loved _me_.”

And just like that, Oliver is done with Isabel, done with her delusional claims to ownership. “What does that have to do with _my_  company?” he half-yells, releasing his hold on Felicity to step closer to Isabel. “My grandfather built this company over forty years, and my father and my _mother_  took it even further. _They_  made it into what it is today -- a _family_  company. You were just an _intern_  who--”

“Your father _loved_  me!” Isabel retorts, her voice raised to match his. “This was _supposed_  to be ours!”

“Okay,” Felicity announces with a sharp clap. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You,” she says, pointing to Isabel, “are going to stop all of this.”

“All of _what_?” Isabel demands impatiently.

Felicity beams at the other woman, and Oliver is torn between pride and moderate fear about whatever Felicity is about to do. “I’m so glad you asked,” she practically purrs. “You are going to stop trying to convince people that Oliver is the vigilante, and your involvement with the attack on QC stops now.”

Isabel stares at Felicity, openly skeptical. “And why would I do anything that you say?”

Felicity’s smile fades, and she is as fierce as Oliver has ever seen her when she replies, “Because I have evidence that proves you’re Snowfinch.”

Oliver goes still, not even breathing, because -- _what_? He’s not aware of her having uncovered anything as recently as this morning, and she got to the office less than an hour after he did. She’s good, but could she actually have unearthed something in between showering and leaving for QC?

Isabel narrows her eyes, staring at Felicity. “That’s not possible.”

“I’m a _hacker_ , Isabel,” Felicity retorts, “an outrageously good hacker, in fact, and I will bury you.” She pauses, frowning minutely as she reconsiders her words. “Wait, not-- not literally,” Felicity clarifies, and, God, Oliver just loves her so much. She points to herself and adds, “I’m not going to _kill_  you or anything. I mean, _obviously_ , right? I just--”

“You have _nothing_  on me,” Isabel interrupts, but there’s a certain tension in the way she’s holding herself that suggests she’s worried. Oliver’s not sure whether she’s scared that Felicity uncovered something, or if she’s scared that Felicity could have fabricated something out of ones and zeros. “If you had, you would’ve already acted on it.”

“I’ve been a little busy,” Felicity points out. “Getting married, getting arrested -- all of that. But now that the FBI recognized the error of their ways,” Felicity continues, “I’ve had a bit of downtime to dig around, and you wouldn’t believe what I found.”

“You’re bluffing,” Isabel says, eyes narrowed as she studies Felicity.

“Please test me,” Felicity responds, pressing her palms together. “ _Please_. I would love to see you in handcuffs.”

There’s a very long, very tense moment where they all wait for Isabel to react.

Finally, she tosses her hair over one shoulder, glowering at Felicity and Oliver in turn. “This isn’t over.”

Oliver doesn’t let himself feel relief, not yet, because she’s right -- it’s effectively a stalemate. Felicity effectively bought Isabel’s silence, but they don’t have enough leverage to end her affiliation with the company once and for all. Everything goes back to the way that it was before the attack on QC, albeit with much more bad blood among the people standing in his office.

It’s not enough. He wants Isabel gone, safely away from the company, and from Felicity, but he will take this stalemate for the time being. “We’re done here,” he dismisses Isabel, his tone hard and unforgiving.

“For now, maybe,” Isabel snaps, and he can see the rage now, her frustration at the forced detente. “But you have no idea what’s coming.”

“Is that a threat?” he asks, stepping right into Isabel’s personal space.

“A promise,” she answers, not giving an inch. “My partner has a vested interest in seeing you bleed, and I will enjoy watching you lose everything you don’t deserve.”

There’s a flare of panic in his chest at the revelation that she’s working with someone, that there’s another player on the board that he doesn’t know about. Isabel turns on her heel and stalks away before he can decide on the wisdom of pressing for more information.

As soon as Isabel is out of the office, Felicity releases her breath in a giant whoosh. “I can’t believe that worked,” she says, slumping against the back of one of the leather visitor’s chairs.

Oliver stills. “What? You were _bluffing_?”

“I mean, yeah.” Felicity gives a half-hearted little shrug. “But give me an hour and I’ll have what I need.”

Oliver presses a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer away in a moderate, belated panic. Isabel is dangerous, incredibly so to the person she believes has her cornered. Oliver would never have agreed to left Felicity step into that role if he’d known it was bluster on her part. “Felicity!”

“You should get in there,” she says, gesturing towards the door. “She’s alone with the Board, and she’s pretty clearly off of her rocker.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, knowing she’s right. He needs to get in there and make sure Isabel keeps her promise. He needs to get through the rest of the Board meeting and defend the slow progress the company is making in its recovery. No matter how much he’d prefer to stay here with Felicity and Diggle.

With a resigned sigh, he steps right up to Felicity, cupping her face and tilting her head up. He still can’t believe he can do this with her, but he’s not going to stop until she tells him to. “Thank you,” he says, then kisses her so soundly that Diggle makes a disgusted noise. When Oliver straightens, he glances over at Diggle and says, “You’ll be with her?”

Diggle nods, Felicity rolls her eyes at his overprotectiveness, and Oliver steels himself, turning to go rejoin the contentious Board meeting.

& & &

As soon as Oliver disappears back into the Board room, Felicity chances a look at Diggle.

He is, unsurprisingly, staring right back at her with those judgmental eyebrows quirked. “That was a pretty bold call,” he observes, his tone mild. He tilts his head towards the plush leather visitor chairs and moves, settling in with his back to the window.

Felicity follows his lead, dropping onto the seat she’d been leaning against. She shrugs innocently. “I grew up in Vegas.”

Diggle gives her a suitably unimpressed look. “Then you should know how badly things can go when someone calls your bluff.”

Her stomach twists a little, because he’s not wrong. She’s still not sure whether Isabel herself sent those emails from Felicity’s computer to frame her, or whether Isabel had some lackey do it for her. Without knowing that for sure, Felicity couldn’t really put too much detail into her threats. “I think we’re all pretty convinced that Isabel had her duplicitous little hands in the Snowfinch mess,” she points out a little defensively, “so the bluff was only risky if I got too specific. Which I didn’t.”

“Still,” Diggle answers in a mild tone. “Could’ve gone a different way. What was our fallback?”

She appreciates that he includes himself and Oliver in defending her total lack of a plan -- she’d never truly understand the appeal of a team before the last year or so, working with Oliver and Diggle. Her prior experiences on group projects were mostly school-related, and had all gone predictably badly, since Felicity has almost always been the smartest person in any group, and more than a little competitive. So she’d end up doing the bulk of the work, but be forced to share the credit equally. Even her attempts at being a hacktivist with Cooper and Myron and Sameer and Jesse had followed that same template -- Felicity did the bulk of the really cutting edge coding, and the others used it for their own hacks.

She’d never known what she was missing all those years -- this feeling that whether she’s out in front leading, or stumbling along behind screwing everything up, her teammates have her back. John might be the best friend she’s ever had, and she knows he would never, ever let her face a threat alone -- even one of her own making.

Like bluffing too hard against an apparently unbalanced, vengeance-driven woman with inexplicable personal animus towards her, for example.

What if she’d messed that up and Isabel had marched right back into the Board room and outed them all as Team Arrow? “Frak.”

Diggle chuckles. “You’re one of the fiercest people I know, Felicity,” he tells her, “but it’s possible you’ve been hanging around with our friend a little too long. Maybe his penchant for impulsivity is rubbing off on you.”

She knows he doesn’t mean anything by it; he’s _definitely_ not alluding to the fact that he knows she and Oliver have been, well-- She flushes immediately, remembering just how much of an eyeful Diggle got quite earlier. “I’m sorry about this morning,” she apologizes, avoiding his gaze and wrinkling her nose in discomfort.

Diggle waves it off. “I’ll tell the story at his bachelor party.”

Felicity is torn between a giddy kind of embarrassment at John so easily suggesting she and Oliver might make a real go of things, and the undeniable reality that Oliver is no longer a bachelor. “We’re already married,” she points out. It’s still hard for her to say that out loud, even though she’s grown used to the feel of the slim band on her finger and, oh, yeah, she and Oliver totally had sex.

“I’m aware of that,” Diggle answers with a grin. “But you two seem to be going about things backwards. I figure you’ll eventually fill in the gaps.”

“The gaps?” she echoes skeptically. She’s barely keeping her head above the rampageous emotions she’s feeling for Oliver, and about what tonight might mean. Yes, she and Oliver had sex -- good sex, _really_  good sex -- and he hadn’t gone running, leaving an Oliver-shaped hole in wallboard. She realizes it’s _possible_ that they might take a shot at things.

But she’s surviving this craziness moment to moment, and hasn’t had time to think about the kinds of things Diggle’s alluding to. Big picture things. Scary things.

Things she absolutely can’t let herself wish for -- not yet.

But Diggle just leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and fixes her with one of those looks of his, like he’s already figured it out and is just waiting for her to catch up. “The gaps,” he repeats with a nod. “Things like your first date. Deciding to be together. Apartment hunting. A real proposal.”

Felicity flushes, her hands tangled together in her lap as she tries to withstand the tidal wave of _want_  she feels at the images he’s put into her head. But that way lies madness -- this is _Oliver Queen_  they’re talking about, the man who not even three months ago told her in that emotionally stunted way of his that he can’t even _date_  someone he could really care about. It’s insanity to think he’s ready for anything like what Diggle’s suggesting.

She knows from bitter experience that she’s an easy woman to leave, and she’s not sure she could make it through Oliver taking advantage of that particularly quality.

“John.” She wants to say more, maybe ask for Diggle’s help with all of this, but she can’t seem to voice her thoughts. Plus, it’s really not fair to ask Diggle to explain Oliver’s emotions to her.

“Felicity.” Diggle waits until she looks up at him to continue. “You must know how he feels about you.”

She lets herself think about it -- about the way he’d watched her last night, the soft, worshipful feel of his hands on her body, the half-muttered declaration of love. She thinks maybe she knows, but it’s so, so hard to let herself believe it. Because what if she’s wrong?

Worse -- what if _he’s_  wrong, and he’s just caught up in this whirlwind of _stuff_ , and she just happens to be standing the closest?

“Felicity,” Diggle prompts.

“Yeah.” She meets his gaze, but reluctantly. “I’m-- I’m not sure, John. I think….” She trails off, frustrated with herself for being unable to articulate what she’s struggling with. “I think I’m in love with him,” she says all in a rush, nearly clapping her hand over her mouth when she’s done.

She should’ve know Diggle would be completely unsurprised by her admission. He simply smiles at her and nods. “Then I think you should tell him that.”

Her voice sounds shaky when she says, “Kind of a heavy topic for a first date, don’t you think?”

“For you two?” Diggle shakes his head as he pushes himself to his feet. “Seems more like clearing the air to me, considering you’re already together in every way that counts.” Before she can react, Diggle hooks his thumb toward the door. “I’m going to grab lunch from the place down the street -- Greek salad?”

Felicity hesitates before accepting the subject change. “Yes, please,” she says, standing up and heading for her desk. Because she can’t think about this anymore, and she definitely can’t talk about it -- not if she wants to make it through the next few hours to her date with Oliver.

She shivers at the thought, then settles into her desk chair and takes a deep, cleansing breath, focusing all of her attention on the screen.

Despite all of the _very_  good points Felicity made to Isabel regarding how she’d never be so stupid as to use the QC network for questionable purposes, she spends the next couple of hours _totally_  hacking from her desk. But she _is_  an incredible hacker and an incredibly smart, so she uses precautions -- an encrypted connection to the servers in the lair, bouncing her research queries off a half-dozen anonymizers, capturing all the data she’s pulling from various sources into the secure cloud-based storage she’d built herself -- that kind of thing.

She also digs in on the valuation and ownership of QC stock. She’s no finance whiz, but she can certainly do the basic math to figure out what the ownership split is at this point -- preferred stock was split 50/50 between the Queen family and Stellmoor (Stellmoor only owns about 47% of the stock, but has coerced the various stockholders who make up that other 3% to align with Stellmoor). The kind of price fluctuation that happened in the wake of the attack on QC definitely spooked the common shareholders, but for Felicity’s purposes, only the preferred stockholders really matter -- they control the Board, and the Board controls the company. So she needs to confirm whether Stellmoor retained any preferred stock that might have been sold by their aligned shareholders.

By the time Oliver emerges grumpily from the Board meeting, Felicity has identified three stock transactions from Stellmoor aligned organizations to a holding company called FQ Ltd. She gives him a half-wave, barely glancing up from the financial trail she’s trying to follow -- it starts at Starling National Bank, but after that it gets confusing fast, weaving through several European holding companies.

It’s only when Oliver’s hand lands on her shoulder that she fully startles back to the present. “Oh,” she says, turning wide eyes up to him. He’s standing beside her chair, smiling down at her.

“There she is,” he teases.

“How’d the rest of the meeting go?” she asks.

Oliver shrugs. “It was fine. But more importantly--”

“Right,” she interrupts, lifting her hand to tap her fingernail against the computer screen. “Turns out _some_ preferred stock did change hands during the fluctuation in stock prices, but obviously none of your family’s was sold. Unfortunately, it looks like your family didn’t snap up any of the shares that became available, so the most likely outcome is that--”

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupts, shifting to lean his hip against her desk.

She takes a breath and really looks at him -- he’s a little rumpled, his hair messy, like he’s run his hand through it in irritation a few times, and his tie has been tugged slightly off-center. But his eyes are bright and clear and focused on her, so she swallows and says, “Yes?”

Quite suddenly, he looks a little uncertain, his frame tense. “Dinner,” he says, then grimaces slightly. “If you’re still up for it, we should maybe head out soon.”

Right. Dinner. A date. To talk about the excellent sex and the part where they’re sort of married at the moment. And to talk about _feelings_.

Her stomach gives a slow flip and she glances at the clock in the corner of her monitor. “It’s four- _thirty_?”

Oliver chuckles. “Yes.”

She turns back to her keyboard, quickly writing a new search algorithm to track down contacts to and transactions with FQ Ltd. It takes her a few minutes, and then she reaches up and turns off the monitor before rather abruptly pushing herself to her feet.

Oliver watches her carefully. “So we’re still on for dinner?” he ventures, sounding more than a little hopeful.

She steps closer, drawn to him, biting her lip when his hand settles on her waist in a way that’s overwhelming but still somehow reassuring. “Definitely,” she tells him with what she knows is a ridiculously large grin. She would feel self-conscious about it, but he’s basically beaming at her as he urges her closer and tilts forward for a kiss.

Kissing Oliver is still very new -- and _very good_  -- and, yes, it’s the office, and they should definitely talk about PDA ground rules, but Felicity is only human, so she indulges. She lets her hands rest on his biceps, then runs her fingers up to his shoulders.

They don’t separate until Diggle clears his throat.

Felicity straightens and pushes herself away from Oliver. “I need to get ready,” she tells him, her tone more than a little accusatory. Because, honestly, it’s his fault she’s distracted by all of the kissing. And just his general... _Oliver_ ness.

Smugly, Oliver holds his hands up in the air, like he hadn’t just run them from her shoulderblades to her ass, easing her body closer his. God, he’s really good at that, she muses, her gaze lingering on his hands for a moment. “Seven o’clock okay?” he asks. Off of her puzzled look, he adds, “Diggle’s going to take you back now. I’ll be there later.”

Perking up, Felicity decides, “That’s perfect! Dig, can we swing by my apartment? I have a--” She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together as she glances at Oliver. “You’ll have to wait and see.” She’s already stepped away from him, but can’t quite resist moving back for one last quick chaste -- or at least mostly chaste -- kiss. Because they apparently do this now.

She cups his face, running her thumbs against his stubble. “Seven is perfect. I’ll see you later.”

& & &

By 6:45, Oliver is a nervous wreck.

His pulse is racing, his palms feel sweaty, and the freaking collar of this suit is practically strangling him. He can’t figure out what’s wrong with him -- he can’t even remember being this nervous about a girl back when he was an inexperienced teenager, and there’s certainly no reason he should be so off-balance now.

“It’s just dinner,” he mutters to himself, stopping in front of a mirror on the wall near the stairwell to tug at his stupid tie. He’s wearing the ice blue one with the subtle leaf pattern, because the first time he wore it, Felicity had taken an extra beat when he walked in, her gaze openly appreciative. Then she’d muttered something about how the leaves look like tiny arrows-- _well, not the arrow-y part of the arrow, but the feathers -- the fletching._  And then she’d beamed at him, clearly proud of herself for knowing the names of the arrow parts.

The memory of that moment still warms him when he thinks about it. But what if she doesn’t actually care for this tie? He frowns, smoothing it down and trying to decide whether to change.

“Oh, my God, Ollie.” Thea appears at his elbow, looking at him like he’s crazy. Which he might be. “Hold still,” she orders, reaching up to fix his tie, then tug on his light grey jacket. She steps back, cocking her head as she examines him. “Eh,” she says with her unique brand of affectionate dismissiveness, “I guess you’ll do.”

“Thanks, Speedy.” He’s trying for sarcastic, but is too twitchy to get all the way there.

“Why are you being so weird right now?” she asks, brow furrowed. “Is taking your wife to dinner that daunting? I know she’s way smarter than you, but--”

“Thea,” he interrupts with a grumble. She just stares at him, waiting for an explanation. Shit. “Uh, just a little excited,” he answers, trying for a careless shrug. “We’re talking honeymoon plans tonight.” It’s a lame, unconvincing excuse, so before Thea can continue to question him, he slips past her, heading for the door to his room.

He’d seen Felicity briefly over an hour ago, when he’d knocked, asking for access to his clothes. She’d answered the door freshly showered, nearly drowning in his navy robe. He’d gone stock still in the doorway, his gaze sliding down her body -- she’d been quite effectively covered up, and yet the sight of her in his robe, presumably with very little underneath, had left him breathless. But she’d tsk’d him and backed away when he’d inevitably headed for her instead of the closet. She’d retreated to the bathroom until he left to get dressed in the next room, leaving her to her rituals.

Now, standing back in front of his -- _their_? -- room, he realizes his hands are shaking again. It’s a strange situation -- they’re technically already married, and he’s knocking on the door to his childhood bedroom, which they’ve been sharing for the past few days. But he’s still picking her up for their first official date.

It feels important; monumental. He has to get this right.

Oliver clenches his fists momentarily, trying to center himself, to regain control. One slow breath in, one slow breath out, just the way Tatsu taught him. Then he knocks on the door. “Felicity?”

“Oh!” he hears her say, her voice muffled by the door between them. She sounds somehow surprised, like maybe she lost track of time. “Coming!”

Oliver hears the familiar sound of her heels growing closer, and then the door opens. She’s a vision, and he has to take a steadying breath in reaction.

Felicity stands before him in a rich purple dress, the bodice of which features a deep V neck with a tiny stabilizing strap that rests just below her collarbones. Oliver’s gaze drifts down, appreciating the way the fabric accentuates her curves, until it ends mid-thigh, leaving those legs of hers bare down to the silver strappy heels on her feet. He drags his gaze back up to her face, reading her nervousness in the slight crease on her forehead and the way she so very carefully adjusts her glasses. She’s left her hair down, tumbling over her shoulders in large waves, and he can’t resist reaching out to run a finger along the curls.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in and kissing her gently.

“Thank you,” she breathes as he pulls back. He can see the excitement and nerves in her expression -- one of the things he loves most about her is how brave she is with her heart. He promises himself he will always treat that quality carefully.

“Shall we go?” He offers her his hand, and she takes it with a smile.

There’s a strange quietness between them as they descend the stairs -- anticipation and an unspoken agreement to put all of the heavy topics on hold until they get to dinner. He’s still jittery, still nervous, but he lets himself enjoy the feel of her hand in his and her easy stride as she moves in harmony with him.

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, he nearly rolls his eyes when he sees that Thea, Donna, and Moira have all found some reason to be hovering in the hallway, within easy sight of the front entrance. Felicity hesitates, glancing up at him with that adorable crinkle in her forehead. Oliver slips his arm around her waist and urges her forward. “Don’t wait up,” he calls out to his family and hers.

“Oliver,” Felicity protests, sounding exasperated. But she’s smiling when she says it, so he doesn’t regret a thing.

He’s chosen to drive them himself tonight, because the last thing he needs is more of an audience as he tries to explain his feelings to her. Plus, he just wants this to be _them_. So he ushers her to the silver Porsche, opening the door for her and handing her into the car.

She smooths her skirt over her thighs and looks up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Oliver closes her door and exhales unsteadily, making his way around the back of the car and sliding in beside her. That quiet anticipation is back as he pulls out of the driveway, and he’s honestly a little surprised that Felicity hasn’t broken into an epic babble by now. He glances over, and she’s sitting rigidly in her seat, her hands clasped together in her lap.

He recognizes his own anxiety in her, and decides they need to address it head on. “Felicity?” he ventures.

“Hmm?” She looks over at him, eyes wide behind her glasses. It bothers him that she seems almost panicky -- the last thing he ever wants is to make Felicity uncomfortable or scared.

“Why are we nervous?” he asks with genuine concern and confusion. They know each other so well, it’s strange to him that they’re both so skittish and uncertain.

“Because it’s _us_ ,” she answers, then immediately flushes, reaching up to straighten her glasses. “Oh, frak,” she mutters, looking suddenly distraught.

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks, and now he’s the one feeling slightly panicky. Should he have asked pushed about their anxiety? Has he already screwed everything up?

“No, nothing, it’s fine,” she tells him, but he knows she’s lying. Her hands flit in the air in front of her before she drops them to her lap and turns her face away.

And suddenly he understands what she meant when she said that the situation is intimidating _because it’s them_  -- it’s intimidating because it’s _important_. He’s dated women before. He’s loved women before. But he’s never felt this same sense of... of _possibility_  with any of them. He has always run from expectations, from what he perceived as yet another gilded cage.

That’s not how he feels tonight. Instead, he feels like he’s on the precipice of something _good_ , of something that he has finally realized that he _wants_.

And he’s so worried he’s already ruined everything that he pulls the Porsche over onto the shoulder, leaving it in neutral and pulling the emergency brake. “Felicity?”

She whips back around to look at him, her hand braced on the door. “Oliver, what are you--?”

“What’s wrong?” he repeats, reaching for her hand and feeling a rush of relief when she latches on.

“It’s stupid,” she tells him, shifting uncomfortably. “We should just go.”

“Felicity.” He waits until she meets his gaze. “You’re upset. Please tell me why.”

Even in the near darkness of the car’s interior, he can see the flush on her cheeks. “I’m not upset, I just--” She glances away, making the most adorable little noise of distress. “I just meant to wear my contacts,” she explains, all in a rush, “and I forgot, so I’m wearing my glasses, and,” she continues in a sing-song, “boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses--”

“Felicity--”

“--and this look,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face, “doesn’t really go with the whole _a date with Oliver Queen_  thing I’m trying to--”

“Hey, hey, stop,” he interrupts, because whatever she’s thinking about them, she’s wrong. “You’re beautiful, and I love your glasses. I’m glad you’re wearing them tonight.”

Felicity stares at him, her mouth dropped open in a tiny ‘O’ of surprise. “You are?”

“I am,” he reassures her with a smile. He does love her glasses; they are quirky and bring the appropriate amount of attention to her beautiful eyes. But mostly, she was wearing them when they met, and when she found him in her backseat, and for a thousand other moments that make up the patchwork of their history together. “They’re _you_ , and I--” He chokes on the words, on the confession he nearly just made to her. “I just want to be with you,” he says instead. It’s true, and much less scary to say aloud.

“Oh,” Felicity breathes.

He quirks an eyebrow. “I can make a pass at you right now if you don’t believe me,” he offers, trying to lighten the mood, warmth filling his chest when she laughs in response.

She squeezes his fingers briefly. “Maybe later,” she answers, “But I believe I was promised dinner.”

They grin at each other for a moment, until a car races past, leaving the Porsche rocking slightly in its wake. “We should get to the restaurant,” Oliver says. When she nods, he brings her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckles before releasing her to shift the car into first gear.

The rest of the drive passes in an easier silence, but Oliver can still feel his pulse pounding. He valets the car, and ushers her into a small bistro that overlooks the Starling Bay. It’s relatively new, and more laid back than trendy; Diggle had suggested it to Oliver, with the comment that Felicity might actually prefer Big Belly.

Oliver is a bit apprehensive as Felicity looks around, wide-eyed. “I’ve never been here,” she tells him. “I didn’t know this place existed.”

He grins. “Me, neither.” The fancier restaurants are downtown, or on the grounds of the various country clubs and yacht clubs, while he and Diggle and Felicity tend to frequent the smaller, often quirky places within walking distance of Verdant and QC. He’s glad to bring Felicity somewhere that they can experience together. “I wanted somewhere we could be alone, where we could talk.”

The maitre d’ shows them to a candlelit table near the back, situated against the large windows. There’s enough chatter and ambient conversation that they’ll be able to talk without fear of being overheard. Oliver nods his thanks and settles Felicity into her seat before taking his. He wipes his damp palms on his thighs and straightens his tie.

“So,” Felicity says, placing her small clutch on the window ledge, “we’re on a date. Like, a _date_  date.” She lifts her eyebrows and leans in, her tone confessorial. “That’s weird, right?”

Oliver tilts his head slightly. “Good weird?” he ventures.

She studies his face for a long moment. “I hope so,” she answers quietly.

And she looks so apprehensive that he can’t stand this anymore, he needs to explain, to put all of his cards on the table. “Felicity, I--”

“Welcome to Historia,” announces their server, a portly woman with salt and pepper hair and kind smile. Her name is Alicia, and she tells them about the special and asks for their drink orders.

Oliver glances at Felicity. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find a place that has the Lafite Rothschild that I owe you.”

Felicity flushes with pleasure, a surprised smile gracing her lips. At his urging, she picks a bottle of red for the table, and Alicia disappears, leaving them alone.

Before Oliver can gather his thoughts, Felicity takes a deep breath and asks, “So are we really doing this, Oliver? Is this--” She gestures between them-- “really what you want?”

“Yes,” he answers, grinning at her. He should’ve known she’d dive right in while he was still searching for words. She has always been braver than him.

Her eyes sparkle in the candlelight, and he couldn’t possibly tear his gaze from her, even if he wanted to. She shifts nervously. “I know that we kind of…” She presses her lips together for a moment, gathering her courage. “Uh, we’ve already crossed some lines, and I’ve been kind of in your face the last little bit,” she continues, her voice shaking just a little bit, “and it would be totally understandable if you were just reacting to the circumstances.”

Oliver frowns at her. “Wait -- what?” He’s not following her -- reacting to circumstances?

“You know,” she presses on, “ _danger_.” She makes a little explosion sound, and uses her hands to illustrate before dropping them to the tabletop again. “There was all this heightened emotion all over the place, with the legal threat, and _jail_ , and this thing we were pretending to be, and maybe you and I got carried away last night, and--”

“No.” He meant that to come out stronger than the destroyed half-whisper he manages. Is she breaking up with him? Before he even gets to try to make this work?

The way she smiles at him, eyes watery with tears, it shatters his heart. “It’s okay, Oliver,” she tells him. “I understand. You told me a long time ago that you couldn’t be with anyone you really--”

“No!” This time, the word comes out with the appropriate force. Maybe too much, given her stunned expression. But if she’s saying what he thinks she’s saying, he has to make sure she understands he’s not just reaching for the closest warm body. “No,” he tries again, tempering his voice. He leans closer, reaching across the tabletop to offer her his hand. He waits, letting her make the decision, his heart thumping painfully in his chest until she gently places her hand in his. “Felicity, that’s not-- I don’t--” He groans in frustration.

She lets her hand sit in his, but she’s not holding on to him the way she was in the car. “Oliver, you and me, we’re...” she shrugs, “basically unthinkable. So if you don’t really--”

“I want this,” he tells her, his voice low and certain. Because suddenly telling her how he feels about her is a hell of a lot less scary -- not when watching her walk away is the other option. All of his hesitation, all of his struggles to find the right words, it all melts away, leaving him with the simple truth that he wants to share with her. “I want you, Felicity. I want to date you and-- and--”

She smiles down at the table, like she’s waiting for him to tell her he’s changed his mind “If you’re not sure, it’s okay.”

“I _am_  sure.” His answer is so vehement that she lifts her chin, meeting his gaze again. He can see her hesitation, her uncertainty, and he needs to figure out a way to make her understand. So he takes a breath, squeezing her fingers in his, and tells her the one unvarnished truth he has left. “I love you.”

Felicity’s eyes go wide behind her glasses. “What?” she wheezes.

Which is when Alicia returns with an overbright smile, two wine glasses, and the Cabernet Sauvignon that Felicity selected.

It’s an excruciating place to pause their conversation. Oliver fidgets, watching as Felicity confirms the bottle is correct, accepts the cork, and then tests the small initial pour. She does it all with one hand, because Oliver absolutely refuses to let go of her right now. Her hand in his is the only thing tethering him to sanity at the moment.

Finally, _finally_ , Alicia pours two full glasses. She takes another look at their tense expressions and says she’ll give them some time with the menu.

With a trembling hand, Felicity lifts her wineglass, taking a long sip before placing it back down on the table. Oliver simply watches her, on tenterhooks for some kind of reaction to his words.

“You,” she starts, her voice unsteady. “You think that you-- uh, that you love me,” she says, like she’s repeating the most ridiculous thing he’s ever said to her. And it doesn’t escape his notice that she’s basically suggesting he’s tricked himself to think he loves her.

“No,” he clarifies, rushing on when her expression shutters immediately, “no, I don’t _think_  it, Felicity. I know it. I was too stupid to understand at first, and then I was too--” He shakes his head, huffing a laugh at his own expense. The big, tough Arrow, weaponized killing machine, too scared of his feelings for this amazing woman to admit them aloud. It seems absurd, but it is absolutely true. “I was afraid.”

She gets that little crease in her brow that means she’s confused. Or maybe contemplative. “Afraid,” she echoes slowly. “Afraid of what?”

He smiles at her, shaking his head the tiniest bit. “Afraid I’d end up losing you. It’s--” He swallows. “I’ve lost a lot, and those experiences, when they pile up on to you, one loss after another, you learn that it’s easier to-- to keep your distance. But you,” he pauses, shrugs a little helplessly, because she’s the exception to every rule he’s ever drawn for himself. “I got back, and I was going to focus on doing this thing, on righting my father’s wrongs. Then I met you. You and Diggle, you saved me from my worst instincts. You definitely saved my life. And you, Felicity,” he pauses to lift her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles again, “you just wormed your way right past all of my defenses.”

“Oliver,” she whispers, eyes shiny with emotion. Her fingers tighten on his, and he feels like he can breathe a little easier. Like maybe she’s not breaking up with him after all.

“I loved you before I even realized it,” he tells her. “And I know that I should walk away.” Her body stiffens, but Oliver presses on, “I know that I should keep you safe by keeping my distance, but I-- I don’t think I can anymore, Felicity.”

Something in her mood has shifted -- she’s tense, closed off, and she nods slowly as he speaks. It sets all of his warning bells jangling.

“Felicity?”

“I--” she starts, then pauses, pressing her lips together. “I don’t think I can do this with you if you’re not sure. I can’t--”

“I _am_ sure,” he interrupts, leaning forward, cursing the solid wood table between them. “Felicity, please, I know how I feel. I know what I want.”

“For now,” she answers quietly.

“No,” he objects, desperation making his entire body tense and stiff. He can feel this slipping away from him; he can feel the impending loss, and he’s not sure losing her is something he can come back from. “Felicity, I love you. I’m still-- I’m still scared, but I know what I want.”

She gnaws her lip as she studies him. He’s reminded of a hundred other conversations, dozens of times she’s examined him and seen through every defense. The difference is that this time, he _wants_  her to see him, to know for sure that he is telling her the truth. So he holds her gaze, letting himself feel every last emotion and hoping she understands.

Finally, she speaks. Her head tilts, just a bit, and she asks, “Can I trust you?”

Oliver knows he has many faults, but he does try to learn from his mistakes. So he holds her gaze earnestly and answers, “Yes. You can trust me.”

She’s still deciding, and he can’t help but hold his breath as he waits.

Her fingers tighten around his, and she looks down for a moment, smiling at the table before lifting her head to meet his gaze. When she smiles at him like that, it’s like staring into the sun. “Okay,” she says, and this time, she lifts his hand up, sandwiching it between both of hers as she brings it up to her mouth. She kisses his knuckles, and Oliver’s eyes sting with tears.

“Okay?” he manages, his tone gruff. “So we’re-- We’re doing this?”

She nods slowly. “Yes,” she agrees. “We’re doing this.”

END CHAPTER


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

Dinner passes in kind of a blur for Felicity.

Because she’s with Oliver.

Holy frak.

She’s _with_ Oliver, and not just like on a date with him. He’s with her. They’re together.

It’s... so weird.

Good weird, but still -- weird.

The Oliver sitting across from her at this lovely little restaurant overlooking the Bay is softer and more solicitous than her everyday Oliver. He’s telling her stories -- funny stories about him and Thea, bittersweet stories about Tommy, and even some sad, scary stories about Lian Yu.

When he admits he wasn’t always on Lian Yu, Felicity’s distracting _oh, my God, Oliver loves me, oh, my God, we’re together now, someone pinch me_ -type thoughts dissipate immediately. Because Oliver volunteering something about his time away is… definitely new and deserving of all of her attention.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, trying to keep her voice warm and supportive instead of startled and curious. “I’m not surprised. Where were you?”

Oliver looks down, his hands folded together near his empty plate. “Hong Kong, for a bit,” he answers slowly, and she can see the effort it takes him to share this with her. His shoulders are rigid and his jaw tense. “Russia.”

Felicity knows this man, she knows how difficult it is for him to speak of his years away. This time, she reaches for him, laying her hand atop his. When he meets her gaze, she nods. “That explains some of your tattoo choices,” she offers with a small smile. She won’t push for more, and she will try very hard not to cry if he chooses to share more.

“Yeah,” he answers with a watery chuckle. “The tattoos weren’t always my choice, actually.” His glances out the window, his expression hardening a bit as he gets lost in the worst aspects of his past.

Her heart aches for him, for the cruelty he’d faced for years. “I’m sorry.”

Oliver looks back to her, brow furrowing slightly. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he tells her, and it utterly breaks her heart to know that he means it. He has been through so much that he can’t even speak of, but he’s somehow internalized it and taken all the blame onto those broad shoulders. He’s come to believe that he somehow deserves what happened to him, and cannot understand why anyone would feel sorry for him when they learn even the barest of details.

She blinks back the tears threatening and holds his gaze, searching for some way to make him understand. “I’m sorry your choices were taken away from you,” she explains. “I’m sorry you were kept from your family for so long. I’m sorry you were hurt.”

He presses his lips together, visibly struggling against his emotions. He tries so hard to keep his heart locked away, but if there’s one thing that Felicity knows for absolute certain about this man it’s that Oliver feels things so very deeply. “Yeah,” he manages.

Abruptly, Felicity stands, releasing her hold on his hands. Oliver looks startled and then almost resigned, like he’s expecting her to stalk away. When she starts to tugs her chair around the edge of the table, pushing it towards him, he figures out what she’s doing and brightens. Of course, once he gets his hand on the edge of her chair, he drags it to his side like it weighs nothing, then reaches for her hand, pulling her close.

She resettles, leaning into his warmth as he slings an arm around her shoulders. They don’t do this -- well, they didn’t? Maybe they will now? -- but she needs to comfort him, and she’s a tactile person. She shifts even closer, until they’re pressed together from shoulder to knees “Oliver,” she says quietly, “you don’t have to tell me about those times if you don’t want to, but if you _do_  want to talk to someone, I am always, always here. Okay?”

He blinks down at her for a moment, seemingly too overcome to speak, and then he leans in, twisting, and hugs her tightly to his chest.

She feels a little awkward for a moment, since they may be tucked away to the side of this restaurant, but they’re still in public But then Oliver releases a heavy breath, relaxing into her, and for the first time, Felicity lets herself really feel the honesty in his touch. She knows this man, and she knows he was telling her the truth earlier. He loves her. And she loves him. So she lets herself feel it.

Until she realizes-- “Oh!” Felicity jerks back, clapping a hand over her mouth.

Oliver freezes. “Felicity?”

“I love you,” she blurts, and his mouth drops open, eyes wide in surprise. “I didn’t mean to not say it back earlier,” she continues, words tumbling over themselves in attempt to explain, “when you were saying all those lovely things. I’m sorry, Oliver, I was just-- I mean, I was kind of in shock. I’m still kind of in shock?” She purses her lips for a moment, contemplating the truth in those words. “Probably not _actual_  shock, because I definitely don’t feel cold right now,” she muses with a pointed look down at how closely they’re sitting to each other. “But I’m still processing for sure. But I should’ve told you earlier, so I’m sorry.”

Oliver grins at her, looking so happy and so carefree that he’s nearly unrecognizable as the stiff, guarded man she’d met all those months ago. When he leans in to kiss her, she’s hyper-aware of the fact that they’re in public, so she keeps it chaste.

He pulls back, still looking bright and happy. “Do you want dessert?” he asks in a soft voice that kind of sets her on fire a little bit?

There’s a warm, fizzy kind of feeling in her chest. “Is that a euphemism?” Her smile turns into something more of a smirk.

Oliver laughs. “It wasn’t intended to be,” he answers, “but I am open to whatever kind of dessert you want, Felicity. Or whatever combination,” he adds, his tone wicked.

Felicity actually whimpers in reaction, because her mind promptly supplies a very, _very_ pleasant image involving Oliver’s abs, hot fudge, and a delicious good time for all. Oliver chuckles, his breath warm against her skin, and she shivers. He shifts closer, his arm circling her more firmly, and Felicity says, “Inattentive, my ass.”

Oliver stills. Stiffens, even, his body all tense and weird all of a sudden, and Felicity feels a flare of nerves kick up in her chest. She tilts back enough to see his face. “Oliver?”

He swallows, looking nervous again. “Uh, is that... Were you talking about Isabel?”

Oh, frak, why did she bring this up? They were all happy and flirty and _clearly_  headed for the best kind of nightcap, so her brain decides to bring up the horrible harpy he slept with? Felicity adjusts her glasses, her hand fluttering anxiously in the space between them. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t bring up your past... girlfriends or--”

“Isabel wasn’t anything but a mistake,” Oliver interjects.

“Right. No,” Felicity agrees with a strange head bob that is supposed to be a nod but feels more like a flinch. “I know that.”

She does. Sort of.

Well, she knows Oliver made an incredibly stupid decision, but she has never been able to understand why he’d had sex with her. Isabel is a terrible person, which, sure, they hadn’t _totally_  known back then, but she’d been rude and dismissive and cruel, and also hell-bent on taking over Oliver’s family’s company. The only logical conclusion Felicity has been able to draw is that he couldn’t resist Isabel’s beauty. A realization which, for someone who’s been in close proximity to Oliver for many, many, _many_  hours for more than a year, is a little disheartening.

Unlike Isabel’s icy sex appeal, Felicity is clearly _very_ resistible.

Which is _really_  not something she wants to discuss with Oliver. Like, _ever_. “Never mind what I...” she trails off with a wince. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have brought up other women when--”

“There are no other women, Felicity,” Oliver interrupts. “I really need you to believe that.” He’s doing that eye-piercing eye contact thing, and she understands that he feels very strongly about this.

“I do!” She reaches up and cups his face, concerned by the frown lines in his forehead. She believes that he loves her and she knows from the enthusiasm of his touches last night that he wants her. “It’s just that she implied that you were, uh, inattentive, which is--” Felicity scrunches up her face in disgust-- “well, _gross_ , for one, because who sleeps with someone and then gives, like, _public reviews_  of their performance?”

Oliver closes his eyes, and he looks torn between embarrassment and laughter. “Do we need to talk about this right now?”

“No, of course not,” Felicity agrees, pressing her lips together and mimicking locking them shut.

Oliver laughs, running his hand up and down her arm. “Nothing about her interests me, Felicity. I don’t want to think about anything but you. Okay?”

“Yes. Definitely.” Felicity nods with genuine enthusiasm. Because he’d definitely focused on her last night, and it’s... well, it’s quite something to be the center of a very determined and endlessly sexy Oliver Queen’s attention. “It’s just that you’re kind of illustrating my point.”

With a resigned sigh, Oliver slumps back into his chair, the arm around her shoulder no longer embracing her so much as kind of... draping along the back of her chair. “And what point would that be?” he asks tiredly.

Felicity can feel the burn of a blush on her cheeks. _Why_ didn’t she just let this drop? _Why_ is she ruining this perfect first date with a terrible conversation about his sexual past? “Just that in my experience -- with you, I mean -- which is, I guess, pretty limited, since we only just--” She stops herself, shaking her head. “You were the _opposite_  of inattentive. With me,” she adds, just to clarify.

Oliver is watching her with wide, slightly confused eyes. “Of course I was.”

She just looks back at him, puzzled.

Shifting a bit to face her more directly, Oliver leans in, speaking softly, and that crackling awareness between them practically sparkles. “What you said in the car, about why we were nervous?”

“Because it’s us?” she echoes.

He smiles, reaching up to run his fingers through her hair. “Exactly.” He takes a moment, then continues. “Sex with beautiful women was gratifying, and it was... easy.” Felicity very carefully tries not to react. These are all things she’s known about him for years, but there’s something a little painful about hearing him _describe_  his expansive sexual history. “I’ve loved women before, and I’ve had sex with women I’ve loved before, but it’s never been...” He trails off, clearly struggling with his words.

“You don’t owe me any explanation,” Felicity tells him. She means it, and also, maybe she doesn’t want to pull any more on this particular thread. She knows he’s had sex with a hundred leggy model types, she really doesn’t need to _remind_  him how much better he had it with other women. She tilts her chin up. “We can just--”

“I didn’t understand how it could be,” he interrupts, his voice low. “I didn’t value it for anything other than easy fun. Or a distraction.” There’s a hint of red in his cheeks now, but he presses on. “But it can’t be like that with you and me.”

Felicity tips her head. “It’s not fun? You didn’t have fun last night? I thought--”

“No, no.” Oliver leans his forehead against hers for a moment, clutching her hand in his. “That’s not what I meant. With you and me, it’s never _just_ anything. Because it’s us. And it feels,” he straightens with a helpless shrug, “different. Doesn’t it?” She nods, and he adds, “ _Important_.”

And she gets it, finally, what he’s struggling to say. She finds herself beaming at him. “It is important,” she agrees, “because it’s you and me.”

Oliver exhales, leaning down. His lips touch hers, soft and chaste, and it takes all of her self-control not to press herself against him and pretend there’s no one watching. “Important _and_ fun,” he tells her with the kind of grin that leaves her a little short of breath. He’s handsome all the time, but when he looks truly happy, he’s beautiful.

She tilts her head up, pressing an innocent kiss to the stubble along his jawbone as she lets her hand rest on his chest and ease slowly downward. “I want my dessert now,” she tells him. “Take me home?” Her palm drifts dangerously near his belt buckle, and Oliver shifts.

“You want anything to go?” he asks, his voice raspy with arousal.

She smiles against his throat. “I just want you.”

He nods once, his free hand lifting to flag down their waitress for the check.

& & &

Despite Oliver’s stated desire to keep Felicity in bed for a full twenty-four hours, they only spend about twelve hours lost in each other before the world intrudes.

The world -- in the form of Donna Smoak -- bangs on the door insistently around ten a.m., while Oliver is blissed out, still recovering from what has to be the best blowjob he’s had in his life. When the first knock sounds, Felicity, sitting cross-legged beside him with a smug look on her face and messy, tangled sex hair, yanks the covers over them with a little squeak of panic.

“Final warning!” Donna calls out. “You’ve had enough orgasms for now!”

“Oh, my God.” Felicity groans, covering her face with her hands. “Mom,” she shouts, “do not--”

The door flies open, banging against the wall, and Donna peers gingerly around the doorframe.

“--come in here,” Felicity finishes with a sigh. She tugs the sheet higher on her chest, her palm flat against her breastbone where, Oliver notices with a little flare of smug pride, he has left a bit of a hickey. “Of course you came in.”

Oliver has no real problem with nudity, as a general rule, and is in no way embarrassed by how much he desires his wife or how much sex they’ve had in the last day. But he doesn’t really need his mother-in-law to see his dick, or for his wife to die of embarrassment, so he anchors the sheet around his hips and sits up, tugging Felicity closer. “Donna, could you give us--”

“We’ve given you _hours_ ,” Donna protests, hands on her hips. “And while I’m certainly happy that my daughter is reaping the benefits of all of _that_ \--”

“Mom, _stop_!”

“--your wedding reception is tonight,” Donna presses on. “We have been working very hard on it, Thea and I, and,” she glances at Oliver and pauses, forehead crinkling in a way that reminds Oliver very much of his wife when she’s struggling for words, “your mother has also offered up some opinions, but we’ve kept you out of it because you asked us to, but it’s _tonight_.” She looks at them expectantly, one hand on her hip, and, yes, there are definitely echoes of Felicity’s stubbornness in Donna as she fixes them with a no-nonsense look. “We need your approval on a couple things.”

Oliver speaks before Felicity can. “We’ll be down for brunch in a half hour, and we can discuss the party then.”

Donna narrows her eyes at him. “A half hour. I will hold you to it.” She turns on her very high heel and leaves, not bothering to close the door behind her.

Felicity flops dramatically onto her back, slinging an arm over her face. “Does your door not lock?” she asks, her voice muffled slightly. “Do we really need to live in a crazy huge house with a thousand other people who can walk in on us having sex? Or, I don’t know, walk by and _hear_  us having sex?”

Oliver’s chest warms with amusement and affection and a profound gratefulness that they’ve somehow made it here. Felicity, who has charmed him from the first day with her bright, quirky adorableness, is here in his bed, and he finds her adorable and desirable in equal measure. He’s pretty sure he will find her adorable when they’re both old and grey, and that kind of long term thinking -- _wishing_  -- is definitely new to him.

He leans over her, kissing along the sensitive skin of her arm. “We can live wherever you want to live,” he tells her, dropping his weight to his elbow, “but I hope we’ll be living there together.” Felicity goes still beneath him -- she’s not even breathing. Oliver grins and taps her forearm, shifting a little closer so he’s half-lying beside her. “Felicity, would you please look at me?”

When she moves her arm, she meets his gaze with those beautiful blue eyes. “You--” She stops.

“I want to go to sleep with you at night and wake up with you in the morning,” he tells her. He doesn’t wholly trust himself with her, but he wants to deserve her. He will work to be the man she thinks he is. His worldview has shifted dramatically in fairly short order, but instead of feeling off-kilter or scared, he is confident of what he wants. “We’re not just dating, Felicity.”

“Yes, we are!” She frowns. “I mean, technically -- _tactically_  -- we’re married, but we’re-- we just--”

“I love you,” he interrupts, gratified that each time he says it it gets easier. He’s held feelings and truths so close to his heart, so tightly protected for so many years that it’s an effort to share them. But she’s more than worth the effort, even when he struggles putting those feelings into words. “You love me. This isn’t like we just met on Tinder.”

She smirks up at him. “Tinder is for hookups.”

He flushes. “You know what I mean. We’re serious. We’re committed. And I--” He slides his thigh between hers. “I like sharing a bed with you. I want that.”

She actually seems flustered, but she pushes through. “I like this, too,” she admits, shifting closer. “It’s just-- I don’t want to screw this up. Are we moving too fast?”

“Felicity,” he grins down at her, “we’re already married. I want to live with you. I want this to work.”

She studies him, those gorgeous eyes of hers intent on him as she considers his words. And then she smiles, and he’s kissing her before she even answers.

He’s just rolled into the cradle of her hips, her knees coming up around his torso, the sheet drifting further down with each movement of their bodies until it’s barely clinging to his ass, when he hears his sister’s voice.

“Oh, good, you guys are-- Oh, my God!” Thea shrieks. “Your door is wide open, Ollie, what the hell?”

Oliver pulls away from Felicity’s kiss, laughing as she squeaks and pulls her arms beneath his chest, basically hiding under him. He glances over towards the door. Thea is standing there with one hand ostentatiously covering her eyes and a scowl on her face. “We’ll be down in a few minutes,” he tells his sister. “Would you please close the door?”

“Fine,” Thea snaps, “but you’re paying for my therapy.” The door slams shut, and then Felicity is pushing him off.

Oliver moves reluctantly, laughing outright when he sees that Felicity’s blush goes all the way down to her navel. Felicity glowers at him, kicking the covers away to sit up. “We are _definitely_  moving,” she tells him primly, rising from the bed to head into the bathroom. When he rolls to his feet, she whirls, pointing at his chest. “No,” she tells him. “We don’t have time for--”

Oliver closes the distance and wraps her in his arms, nuzzling his face into her neck as he lifts her off her feet. “I want to make you come one more time,” he tells her. “I promise I’ll make it fast.”

He actually makes her come twice, and they both leave the shower clean and grinning. They dress quickly, him in jeans and a blue henley she pulls off of a hanger and hands to him, and her in a fuchsia top and slim-fitting black pants that cling perfectly to her curves. He follows a half-step behind as they walk downstairs to meet with Donna and Thea just to appreciate the view. Because he can do that now and not feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

Felicity gives him an amused look over her shoulder as she steps into the study. Then she comes to an abrupt halt, and Oliver manages to tear his gaze from her to find -- Wow.

The stuffy mahogany-and-brass decor of the room has been thoroughly overtaken by large sprays of bright purple, sparkly... Well, they look like dyed, over-sized feathers that have been, for some unknown reason, stuffed into tall, slim glass vases to create what looks like a blindingly bright ball of feathery color.

Oliver has never seen anything like this in Moira Queen’s house, which is a tasteful collection of all things refined and expensive. He’s torn between childish amusement and dawning horror, because these feathery things are... are they for _tonight_? Felicity reaches over and clutches at his hand, a gesture of shared horror.

Which is of course when Donna spots them. She claps her hands in delight. “Look, baby girl!” she says, tugging Thea to her feet and moving closer. “Aren’t the centerpieces beautiful?”

“Centerpieces,” Oliver echoes, eyes wide. “Those are -- for our party.” He nods, wondering absently how the last few blissful hours has led them here. “Centerpieces.”

Thea catches his eye and grins. “The purple ostrich feathers--”

“Ostrich feathers,” Felicity whispers beside him in a tone of disbelief, her grip on his fingers tightening.

“--are for the hightop tables around the edge of the dance floor. There are bouquets of stargazer lilies, too, for the dinner tables.”

Donna reaches for a bright pink envelope lying on the side table and hands it to Oliver. “And look: favors!”

Felicity releases his hand so that he can open the envelope, which he immediately and thoroughly regrets when glitter just _explodes_  everywhere, leaving him a sparkly mess. He doesn’t speak, just slowly turns to Felicity, who is staring at him with wide eyes and her free hand pressed to her mouth. There’s a smattering of glitter on her glasses, and a few shiny pink pieces in her damp hair.

“Oh,” Donna says, “that wasn’t supposed to happen! The glitter is for the guests to throw when you leave!”

Felicity reaches up, carefully brushing some of the glitter from his face, her lips pressed together in a failing attempt to hold in her smile. “It’s a good look for you,” she tells him, a smirk breaking through.

Oliver clears his throat, a clear warning that she acknowledges by grinning so widely that her dimples appear. He sighs. “There’s glitter in your hair.”

Felicity’s hand flies up to her slightly out of control waves. “Seriously?” she whines.

“You don’t like the decorations?” Donna asks, sounding truly deflated. Oliver glances over at her crestfallen expression, and realizes this is could go someplace bad very quickly. “But you’re so colorful, baby girl,” Donna says, “I thought you’d appreciate some _brightness_  on your special day.”

Felicity’s amusement fades as she turns back to her mother, shoulders going tense. Oliver can see the explosion coming and struggles for a way to avert the crisis.

“Our special day,” Felicity begins, her voice getting louder, “was actually--”

“Honey,” Oliver interrupts with a tight smile. If it come down to it, he’ll take Felicity’s side on the glitter thing, but ultimately, he wants Felicity to enjoy today, and he wants Donna to feel included. Which means he needs Felicity to _not_  reach the angry-and-yelling place. “Can I talk to you for just one second?”

Eyes narrowed, Felicity turns back to him. “Right now?” Her eyes are flashing with irritation behind her glasses, and Oliver reminds himself to tread carefully.

“Yes,” he answers, nodding encouragingly. Flashing a smile at Donna, he tugs Felicity out of the study and then a few steps down the hall for good measure. “Felicity,” he begins, keeping his voice low, “this party isn’t really for us, it’s for your mother and mine, because we didn’t include them.”

She shifts, and he can see her anger at her mother shifting into something a little more defensive. “I know.”

He takes moment, trying to figure out how to say what he means without riling her further. “We got married and our mothers weren’t there,” he points out, because the glitter and the ostrich feathers are... a lot, but maybe so is not inviting your parents to your wedding. However fake and tactical it was intended to be at the time.

Felicity tips forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “I hate it when you’re right,” she grumbles. She takes a half step closer, her arms slipping around his waist. Oliver gets that unfamiliar warmth flooding his chest in response to the easy way she leans on him. It’s so new, this physical intimacy, but he is already addicted to the warmth of her skin and the scent of her shampoo.

Grinning down at the top of her slightly glittery blonde head, Oliver wraps her up and hugs her. “So maybe we can let Donna have the purple ostrich feather centerpieces that she bought with you in mind?” he suggests.

“Ugh, yes, fine,” she agrees irritably, “but this,” she continues, starting to get a little wound up again, her arms tightening around him as she shuffles even closer, “is why I left Vegas at sixteen.” Her voice drops, and he can hear the pain beneath her anger when she adds, “My mother’s idea of how I should dress -- of how I should _be_  -- is very different from how I actually _want_  to dress and be.”

Oliver doesn’t know exactly what to say, or how to soothe her. He’s reminded of his inexperience and inadequacy when it comes to relationships, but this -- what he and Felicity are discovering with each other -- is too important for him to let his self-doubt overwhelm him. So he thinks about what he would’ve wanted on those long, scary nights, and he holds her close, rubbing a hand up and down her spine.

He has a dozen questions about the invisible scars left by her childhood. He wants to ask her questions about growing up with Donna, about where her father is, but she’s clearly feeling brittle already and the last thing he wants to do is worsen her pain. He’ll pay her the same courtesy she’s always paid him, and support her unconditionally and wait for her to be ready to talk about it.

“I understand that, Felicity,” he says, trying to find the right words. Because no matter what misunderstandings and hurt feelings lie between Felicity and her mother, it’s clear to Oliver that Donna loves her daughter fiercely. And Felicity may protect herself with quips and deflections, but Oliver knows she loves her mother. Family is important, and he wants Felicity to have as many people in her life that love her as possible, even as he empathizes with her feeling disconnected from her mother. “You know I understand how difficult it is when your family expects you to be something you’re not.”

As she leans back just enough to focus on him, he can see her concern for him, and very little trace of her own hurt. She is generous almost to a fault with her kindness. “You’re a good man, Oliver,” she tells him in earnest, “and your family loves you. _You_ , the quieter, braver, scarred Oliver who came back from the island.” She tips her head slightly and gives him one of those breathtaking smiles. “The Oliver with better hair.”

He can’t quite stifle a surprised laugh, or stop himself from dipping down for a quick kiss. Then he fixes her with a determined gaze. “And your mother loves _you_ , the smartest person in any room with the kindest heart and the most beautiful smile.” He tilts his head slightly. “Even if she chooses to show that love with incredibly large, dyed purple feathers.”

Felicity holds his gaze for a beat, then grumbles, “Fine, we can keep the giant ostrich explosion, but we are  _not_  glitter-bombing our guests!”

Oliver leans in, kissing her soundly. “Deal,” he mumbles against her lips. “Now let’s go tell Donna the verdict and then get something to eat. And then,” he continues, letting his hand drift down to her ass to pull her closer, “I’m gonna need your help to get all of this glitter off of me.”

“Mmm,” she hums in agreement. When she pulls back, she is positively beaming up at him. “We can’t move until we find a place with a shower like the one here.” Her eyes go a little soft and unfocused and she hums. “With all the space and that convenient bench.”

Laughing, Oliver follows along as she pulls him back towards the study. “Deal.”

& & &

Felicity is really not looking forward to the insane, glittery, ostrich-feathered wedding reception that Thea and her mother have planned.

In fact, she’s kind of dreading it. Because, yes, okay, she and Oliver are together, which is _great_. But it’s very new, and a little uncertain, and the last thing they need is to spend an evening accepting congratulations on their still-very-fake marriage.

They’re _together_ , but they’re not married. Well, technically they are married, but only technically. Tactically.

Not-- _emotionally_ , they’re just-- They’re... together.

Dating. Having really enthusiastic sex. And also maybe moving in together? But they aren’t _really_  married.

It’s _very confusing_ and she would just prefer if they had a little more time to see who they really are with each other before parading themselves in front of the world.

Basically, she’s on edge. So much so that she fusses around with her hair for an extra twenty minutes, until Oliver knocks softly at the bathroom door. “Felicity, we’re already late. Thea has sent me twelve texts in the past three minutes, and the last two are basically death threats.”

She huffs irritably and grabs her clutch (which fits only her phone and her lipstick) before wrenching open the door. He’s his normal, unfairly handsome self in the medium grey suit, crisp white shirt, and a deep charcoal tie, and she feels that little bit of self-doubt elbow its way back into her brain. She gestures at her hair. “It’s being difficult,” she grumbles.

But his gaze has dropped down her body, and the sight seems to have frozen him in place. Felicity knows that she looks good tonight, but his openly appreciative reaction both surprises and soothes her.

This dress is a little more maroon than she’d remembered which had thrown off her lipstick plans, and the hem hits her right below the knee which honestly feels a little dowdy for the occasion? Plus, her stupid hair is being _very_  disobedient, with a few big curls mixed in to what was supposed to be a flowy, beachy kind of wave. All of which would be fine, except that Thea invited the press to cover their arrival, which means these pictures are going to be all over the internet, and possibly on CNN, which is just insanity.

“You’re gorgeous,” Oliver says, breaking into her silent mental freakout. He steps closer, holding out his hand, and his eyes are all sparkly in the way that kind of melts her insides. “Felicity, you look amazing.”

She glances down at her dress, smoothing an imagined wrinkle across her torso. “Well, I know you like me in red.”

“I love you in red,” he corrects with a grin.

He leans in, laughing against her cheek when she turns her face away at the last moment with a little noise of protest. “Press stuff first,” she tells him, “ _then_  kissing! I can’t look all smudged for this”

“Okay.” He’s doing that _gazing_  thing again, even as he nods his agreement and tugs her toward the hall.

The silence between them tonight is lighter and... and _settled_  in a way it’s never been before. There’s still the crackle of sexual tension between them, but they’ve -- _repeatedly_  -- acknowledged that aspect of their relationship now, so the corresponding awkwardness and uncertainty has dissipated.

Felicity finds herself stealing glances at him as they make their way downstairs and out to the waiting car for the ride over to the hotel. Leaving aside his default handsomeness, Oliver looks... _better_ , somehow. He looks less guarded, less distant, less stressed. She refuses to attribute that to the magical power of her best sex moves, but she knows Oliver well enough to understand this thing between them, the mutual support and love, it _i_ _s_ helping him.

And, yes, okay, the incredible sex has certainly been keeping them relaxed and happy. Oliver has been operating with a default kind of sated smugness the past few days that should _really_  turn her off. (It does the opposite.)

They slide into the car and their driver for this evening -- a lovely man named Rakim because John Diggle is an honored guest tonight -- eases the car out of the gated driveway. Oliver lets his head drop back with a sigh. His eyes are closed even as he reaches for her hand, and this is another one of those moments that she can see the man she loves all the way down to his core.

Oliver Queen has crafted so many masks for himself, most of which are protective shells that he donned in reaction to some truly terrible things. But even before the island, the billionaire playboy, the college dropout -- regardless of his irresponsible, hedonistic veneer, he was hiding a squishy heart. He’s always had the same endless capacity to love, and the same devotion to people he considers his family.

And she finally understands that he holds her in that innermost circle, that he loves her with an intensity that rivals her love for him.

When the car pulls up in front of the swanky Starling Grand hotel, Felicity’s stomach does a slow somersault at the massive press presence. They’re two or three deep along one side of the wide staircase leading to the ornate wooden doors. Some helpful camera operators have brought their own klieg lights, no doubt to highlight every single flaw.

She takes a big breath and lets it out slowly. At least she doesn’t have to speak tonight -- she just has to walk up six stairs without tripping, and smile and look pretty.

“You’ve got this,” Oliver murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hair before he reaches for the door handle. He stands effortlessly, pausing to button his suit jacket as she awkwardly slides her way a cross the leather seats. He offers his hand, and Felicity takes it, rising from the car to stand beside him. Oliver grins down at her. “Remember to smile. You’re supposed to be happy.”

“I am,” she assures him with an attempt at a smile. Then she frowns at his tie, tucking her clutch under one arm and wriggling the tie a half inch to the left. “Better,” she tells him, patting his chest.

“What would I do without you?” he murmurs.

“Well,” she teases, “you might have bled out in a parking garage, just for starters.” She beams back at him, tapping precisely where that scar lies beneath his clothes.

Felicity can’t know it at this moment, but the picture that will be on CNN in twenty minutes and on a dozen gossip sites even sooner is not one of the hundreds of shots of them posing for the press, but a candid of them standing by the car grinning at each other as she pats his chest.

Felicity is a preoccupied by the soft, affectionate look on his face, because she will never get tired of him looking at her like that. She’s so busy making heart-eyes right back at him that she doesn’t even notice the gaggle of reporters is taking pictures and calling their names. She doesn’t notice much of anything outside of their little bubble of gooey bliss until Thea appears out of nowhere with an exasperated “There you are! I thought for sure you two tumbled back into bed and wouldn’t be seen or heard from ever again.”

Oliver closes his eyes briefly before giving his sister a baleful look. “Thea.”

Her impish grin is completely unapologetic as she grabs Felicity’s clutch and shoos them towards the press. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

Felicity’s nerves resurface as she and Oliver make slow progress along the sidewalk to the staircase, and then even slower, more careful progress up each stair, with plenty of time for the press to take pictures. She feels like her smile is forced, and she’s not sure what to do with her hands until Oliver tangles his fingers with hers.

Once they’re inside, she takes a big gulp of air and looks around. She’s been to the Starling Grand once or twice for business meetings, but it looks a little different at night. The entrance brings them right into a large, well-appointed lobby with warm, indirect light from two chandeliers and a series of floor lamps sprinkled among the clusters of chairs and small couches.

Felicity turns wide eyes to Oliver. “I need wine. Like, a lot of wine. Can we make that happen?”

“Of course we can,” he says, even as Thea descends upon them once more.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Thea explains, sounding incredibly a lot like a drill sergeant despite the beaded little black dress she’s wearing. “I’m going to borrow Felicity for two minutes. Oliver, you go in, say hi to mom, and get your wife a glass of wine.”

Oliver smirks at his sister. “You’re not making us have some grand entrance under an arch made of purple balloons or something?”

Thea glares at him. “You’re not funny. Go away. We’ll join you in five minutes for the speeches, and--”

“ _Speeches_?” Felicity chokes. “There are speeches?” She definitely did not sign up for speeches. Just, you know, a themed party with liquor and cute finger foods and the occasional _best wishes_  from the other guests.

Thea turns all of that laser focus onto Felicity. “It’s wedding reception. Of course there are speeches.”

“She means toasts,” Oliver says, clearly trying to soothe Felicity’s nerves. It doesn’t work.

Particularly when Thea shrugs and says, “Mom’s giving one of the toasts, which means it’ll be a speech. Now,” she continues over Oliver’s groan, turning back to Felicity, “I need you for a second.”

Reluctantly, Felicity nods. Then she glances over at Oliver and presses her palms together in supplication. “Maybe a nice Cabernet?”

“Done.” He kisses her, a little less chastely than appropriate in front of his sister. WHen he releases Felicity, he turns to Thea. “I want my wife back in two minutes.”

Thea glares at her brother, crossing her slim arms. “Five.”

“Two and a half,” he counters, and it’s clear the siblings are warming to the argument. Felicity suspects they could be here awhile if this escalates.

“I will kill both of you,” Felicity interjects, earning a surprised look from Thea and a chuckle from her husband. “Oliver, the wine, please.” It’s a brusque dismissal, but he simply arches an amused eyebrow at her before turning away. She watches him leave with an open appreciation that causes Thea to make gagging noises.

“I’m regretting my choices,” Thea says, drawing Felicity’s attention from Oliver’s form.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just--” Felicity cuts herself off before she can gush about how very brand new being able to ogle him is, because, right, that’s not what most people believe. And, honestly, she’s definitely ogled him in the past, and from the way Oliver enjoys parading around shirtless, she’s _pretty_ confident he’s been okay with it all along.

She waves off her thoughts with a strange little hand gesture. “You needed me?”

“Yes, come with me,” Thea orders, taking Felicity by the hand and pulling her to the corner of the foyer and into the ladies room. There’s a large sitting room with lots of white marble and antique-looking furniture, separated from the stalls and sinks with a large archway.

All of Thea’s bluster and bravado fades, and she seems a little more like the teenager she is as she motions Felicity over to a side table. There’s a small box with a bright pink bow on the table, which Thea picks up and holds for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “There’s an actual gift in there for you both,” she begins hesitantly. “I didn’t really think you guys were the crystal decanter type, so I got you the cutest Kate Spade laptop bag and a matching tote, and I got my brother some boring luggage for you guys to use on your honeymoon, whenever you take it.”

Felicity has never had a sister, or much of a family outside of her mother, and never would have expected such a kind welcome from her new sister-in-law. She’s left nearly speechless by Thea’s thoughtfulness. “Thea...” She shrugs, helpless. “That’s... _Thank_ you.”

“Of course, I always wanted a sister.” Thea waves the weight of the moment away with a little laugh, and offers the small box to Felicity. “This is just something for tonight.”

Touched, Felicity accepts the box and pulls the lid off to find what looks like a scrap of white lace. She’s puzzled, but pulls it out of the box, at which point she can see that it’s a garter with a navy blue ribbon. Delighted, she sets the box down and take a closer look at the garter. “Thea, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she answers with a shrug. “I’m sorry we had to improvise for the actual wedding, so I thought it might be nice for you to have a real garter this time.”

Felicity doesn’t know Thea very well, and she’s probably crossing a million rich people etiquette lines, but Felicity throws her arms around her sister-in-law and hugs her tight. “This is very sweet.”

Thea hugs her back briefly before stepping away. “Just _never_  tell me anything else about this garter, okay? Or the ribbon. Just -- I still might vomit over what I saw earlier today, so I definitely don’t need more.”

Felicity laughs and nods. “No sex stories. I got it.” She inches her fitted skirt up a little to try to figure out how to put the garter on without flashing anyone who might walk in. It’s... not going to be easy.

Thea watches with a skeptical look. “Yeah, that’s not going to work. Give it here. I promise I won’t tell anyone I had my hands up your skirt if you don’t.”

Amused, Felicity agrees, and a minute later, she and Thea are headed back towards the function room that is definitely going to be festooned with bright purple ostrich feathers. Probably a first for the staid Starling Grand. Felicity would be slightly worried about that, except the feel of the lace garter on her thigh is _highly_ distracting.

By the time she reaches Oliver’s side, she’s just very _aware_  of everything. And moderately turned on. Which Oliver picks up on as he turns to greet her. That one sexy eyebrow does its arching thing, and there’s curiosity in his voice when he says, “I got your cabernet.”

Felicity leans into him, tilting her head back in a wordless request for a kiss, which he happily obliges. She loves how easy this intimacy between them is becoming; she’s a tactile person, but Oliver has... not been tactile with her in the past. She’s pleasantly surprised how _open_  he is to touching her in public. In fact, his non-wineglass-holding hand lands on her hip, tugging her closer, and she rests her palms on his biceps. “Oliver,” she murmurs.

He pulls back a couple inches at most. “Yeah?”

“Guess what I have on under this dress.” She means the garter. Of course she does. But when she _hears_  herself and sees the way his eyes darken and his nostrils flare with the breath he sucks in, she immediately backtracks. “No! Not that. I mean, not nothing. It sounds like I meant nothing, but I meant _something_ , and not that I was wearing nothing.”

Oliver squints at her. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to imply I wasn’t wearing underwear,” she whispers, feeling the flush across her cheeks. “I was trying to tell you that I’m--” She breaks off, frowning.

“That you’re _what_ ” he prompts, his hand flexing on her waist. He’s got one of those panty-dropping half-smiles on his face now, equal parts affection, amusement, and attraction.

“It feels kind of anticlimactic now,” she laments with a sigh.

“Felicity.”

“No, it’s just…” She bites her lip, then sighs and says, “I’m wearing a garter.”

Oliver stares at her wordlessly.

“You know,” she continues, “the lacy thing that--”

“ _I know_ ,” he interrupts, his voice dropping to this really low and throaty and sexy register. His hand drifts down her hip. “And I think we should find the nearest room with a locking door so I can see it and--”

“Oliver,” greets Moira Queen’s unmistakable voice, and Felicity goes rigid. “Felicity, good evening.”

Oliver closes his eyes for a moment. “Mom,” he says over Felicity’s shoulder.

Felicity takes a breath, tells herself to calm down, and turns to face her -- _yikes_  -- mother-in-law. “Moira,” she greets, though the name feels strange and stiff on her tongue. “You look lovely tonight.”

“As do you, Felicity,” Moira answers with what kind of looks like a genuine smile? Puzzled, Felicity glances at Oliver for help, but he’s watching his mother.

“Thank you for the effort you and Thea and Donna put into tonight,” Oliver says, unfailingly polite but more than a little chilly.

For a moment, Moira’s facade cracks, and Felicity can see how much Oliver’s careful distance is hurting her. Then Moira turns to Felicity. She takes Felicity’s hand, holding it between both of hers as she speaks. “Felicity, allow me to apologize for my… initial reaction at the house. Your news was a surprise to me, and I’m afraid I let my concern for my son’s well-being cloud my judgment.” She leans a bit closer, her voice low and kind in a way Felicity would have never expected to be directed at her. “I can see how much my son loves you, and how much you love him, and I hope you’ll accept my apology. Welcome to the family, dear.”

And... yeah, okay, now Felicity is totally being hugged by Moira Queen, and not one of those brisk, businesslike half-hugs, no. Moira has got both arms around Felicity’s shoulders, and Felicity has no idea how to react. Belatedly, she brings her free hand up to pat Moira’s shoulder blade awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Felicity says, but it comes out as more of a question than a statement. And then she is released, and Moira has moved to embrace Oliver briefly, whispering something Felicity can’t quite catch.

Moira steps back, takes a calming breath, and smiles at them both. “Now there’s a toast I need to make in your honor. Congratulations.”

Felicity blinks, and then turns to Oliver. “What just happened?”

He tears his contemplative gaze from his mother’s retreating back. “She’s realized how important you are to me. You know,” he adds slowly, glancing at his mother and then back to Felicity, “Queen apologies aren’t easy to come by.”

Felicity gives him a look. “No kidding,” she answers dryly.

Oliver leans closer and kisses the side of her head. “I think she likes you,” he murmurs.

Before Felicity can do much more than laugh at Oliver’s absurdity, Moira Queen steps to the microphone and the toasts begin.

& & &

Two hours into the party, Oliver is leaning against the bar watching Felicity, who’s on the other side of the room chatting with Thea and a few other women around Thea’s age. No one’s dancing, at least not yet, though the party is actually going as well as can be expected. And this way, the dance floor is basically empty so he can indulge himself and simply watch Felicity from across the room.

It’s one of his favorite pastimes, and he can’t imagine that will ever change. Right from the start, he was drawn to her; he found her fascinating, even if he never really let himself contemplate why.

Tonight, he watches her with affection and more than a little bit of lust. She’s luminous in a deep red cocktail dress that hugs her body, and sparkly silver heels that have definitely caught his attention. He’s never had a thing for women’s shoes before, but since Felicity (angrily) accepted the administrative assistant job -- and the related pay bump -- she seems to have found a collection of sexy heels that do great things for her legs and _amazing_  things for her posture. So, yeah. He’s a fan.

He takes a sip of his whisky, glancing over to where Dig and Lyla are seated a table, all of their attention focused on each other. He spent a good amount of time with them earlier, and as expected, he likes Lyla more and more every time they speak. She’s more reserved than Dig, with a fierce determination that Oliver identifies with easily.

She’s laughing now, though, flushed and holding a nearly empty wine glass as she and Diggle talk. Oliver appreciates the way they interact, their easy affection, and he hopes he and Felicity can be like that someday. He has no doubts that Felicity loves him, but the change in their relationship is still very new. He barely knows what she wears to bed, he definitely hasn’t seen her grumpiest pre-coffee morning moods, and they are still figuring out how to blur all the lines they’d tried so hard to maintain before.

All things considered, Oliver can’t wait for the day when the idea of them being together is bone-deep certainty, instead of a thrilling realization. He grins down at his whisky at the very thought.

“There’s my son-in-law,” chirps Donna, appearing at his elbow.

He grins at her, genuinely glad to see her. She’s wearing a tight, bright blue dress that bears more resemblance to expensive lingerie than the more staid cocktail dresses most of the women at this party are wearing. Felicity had made a semi-muffled choking sound when she’d seen her mother, but rallied quickly, throwing her arms around her mother for a conversation in low, warm tones that Oliver couldn’t quite overhear.

“Donna,” he greets, then leans down and kisses her on the cheek.

“You are a charmer, aren’t you?” She’s smiling at him, but he is fully aware of her intentions in coming over here. Donna Smoak is protective of her daughter, which Oliver understands and respects. He’s ready for whatever questions and doubts she might throw at him. “Oliver, can I ask you something?”

He keeps his body relaxed, nodding quickly. “Of course.”

Donna glances around to find her daughter, who’s still engrossed in conversation with Thea and her friends. At the sight, Donna smiles and presses a hand to hear heart. Then she fixes Oliver with a no-nonsense look. “My daughter is like a little pistachio,” she announces, and Oliver blinks in confusion.

“Okay?” he responds, trying to figure out what pistachios have to do with anything. Is this some things about her nut allergy?

“Has she told you about her father?” Donna asks, and Oliver’s stomach drops, because maybe he’s not ready for anything. He can’t imagine Felicity would be thrilled to know her mother is spilling the details she herself hasn’t felt comfortable enough to share.

“Not,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “Not in detail, but--”

“My husband was a son of a bitch,” Donna explains with that familiar Smoak steel in her voice. “He’s a criminal, and he wasn’t good for her, but when he--” She stumbles over her words-- “When-- After he was gone, Felicity and I were on our own and she really took it to heart.”

Oliver looks over at the beautiful, bubbly blonde laughing with his sister, and he starts to fit the pieces together. “Her father left her,” he says.

“Kind of,” Donna answers, and he turns back to her with a question, but she presses on. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is he never looked for us. He never found Felicity. He just... disappeared from her life, and my sweet baby girl blamed herself, no matter what I told her. She started putting up these big old walls around her heart.” Donna presses her lips together, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I tried so hard, but Felicity has always been smarter than me, and into computer thingies like her father. I could never convince her.” She shakes her head, waving off Oliver, who reached out to lay a comforting hand on Donna’s shoulder. “I just want you to understand that my baby girl bruises easily. I want to make sure you’re here for the long haul.”

Oliver puts his drink down onto the bar and takes Donna’s hands in his. She looks down, then back at up at him with wide, curious eyes, and he swears to her, “Donna, I love your daughter. I will never leave her.”

Donna studies him for a long moment, and then she squeezes his hands, frees her own, and reaches up to pinch his cheeks. No one has pinched Oliver’s cheeks in at _least_  fifteen years, but here he is with his mother-in-law squealing in happiness and pinching his cheeks.

Oliver is perplexed.

“Mom!” Felicity arrives out of nowhere, hissing at her mother. “Let go of him!”

“Oh, baby girl!” Donna turns her excitement on her daughter. “I’m just so happy for you both!” She flings her arms around Felicity with a happy little bounce.

Felicity hugs her mother, catching Oliver’s gaze over her shoulder and asking him wordlessly what is going on. But Oliver just smiles. Because he won over Donna Smoak. He knows he did. Parents _never_  like him, though to be fair, he’s never made much of an effort to be the stand up kind of guy parents would _want_  their daughter to fall for. For some reason, Donna believes him and accepts that he loves her daughter unconditionally.

As Donna releases Felicity, Walter Steele approaches in a well-tailored navy suit, holding a manilla envelope. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says by way of a greeting, “but I didn’t want to leave without offering my best wishes.”

Donna whirls around, reaching up to smooth her hair a little bit as she greets the newcomer with a smile.

“Walter,” Felicity exclaims, “thank you so much for coming! Would it be weird if I hugged you?” she wonders, with a confused moue. Her head tips to the side as she considers. “You were my boss, but now you’re not. And now you’re…” She trails off, glancing at Oliver for help. “Are we all related now, somehow?”

Before Oliver can answer, a bemused Walter steps forward and hugs Felicity. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you and Oliver fell in love,” he tells her. When he releases Felicity, he turns to Donna and offers his hand. “Walter Steele,” he introduces himself. “Oliver’s stepfather.”

“Donna Smoak,” Donna answers, shaking Walter’s hand enthusiastically. “Felicity’s mom. I guess that makes us family, too.”

Felicity sighs, and Oliver swallows a chuckle.

“I guess it does,” Walter answers cheerfully, and Oliver can’t help but appreciate the kindness of his stepfather.

His mother’s speech was gracious, of course, and although he’s still not quite ready to forgive her initial reactions to Felicity, he appreciates that she’s left no public doubt that Felicity is a Queen and is expected to be treated as such. But Felicity has always adored Walter, and Oliver knows that Walter’s heartfelt acceptance will mean so much more to her. “Good to see you, Walter,” he greets, his voice a little rougher with emotion that he would’ve liked.

Walter turns to Oliver. “Congratulations. You’ve married an impressive woman, Oliver.”

Oliver ignores the hand Walter offers and hugs his stepfather instead. “Thank you, Walter.”

With a crisp nod, Walter steps back and runs a hand over his suit jacket before offering the manilla envelope in his grasp to Felicity. “Your wedding gift,” he explains. “I do hope you like it.”

With a furrowed brow, Felicity accepts the envelope. “You didn’t have to get us anything.”

“It was my pleasure.” Walter gestures at the envelope. “Please,” he tells Felicity, “open it.”

Oliver watches Felicity’s face as she pulls a thick stack of papers from the envelope, frowning as she reads the first page. “Incorporation documents for... FQ, Limited?” She looks up at Walter. “I don’t understand -- what is this?”

Walter nods once, as if he expected her exact reaction and is pleased by it. “FQ, Limited is a holding company formed on your behalf in London, the Starling-based subsidiary of which made a few recent purchases of stock in your name.”

Oliver gets it immediately, but Felicity’s mouth drops open for a moment in surprised confusion. “In my... what?” she asks, blinking rapidly.

Walter smiles kindly. “It is my belief that each member of the Queen family should own at least some preferred stock in the company.” Leaning in, he kisses Felicity’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, Felicity.” He steps back, giving Oliver then Donna a brisk nod. “I’m afraid I must go, but please feel free to call me with any questions on this. I do believe Felicity’s shares should give the Queen family a majority stake once more.”

Oliver grins at his stepfather. “Thank you, Walter.”

“Yes,” Felicity echoes faintly, still clearly processing Walter’s incredible gift. “Thank you.”

Walter nods and turns to leave.

Donna watches him for a moment, then turns back to her daughter. “Is this some kind of souped up 401 account... thingie?”

Felicity looks at her mother for a moment. “Oh, 401(k)? No, it’s… it’s not a retirement account, it’s just... stock in Oliver’s family’s company. A small ownership stake, actually.”

Oliver runs his palm up Felicity’s back and pulls her closer. “ _Our_  family’s company,” he corrects softly, the words settling in his chest with a warm kind of rightness. He might not be a particularly effective CEO yet, but Queen Consolidated is important to him. It’s part of his family’s legacy, and it’s only right that Felicity is included in that.

She still seems a little dazed by the development, leaning into him as she rifles through the stock certificates. Abruptly, she stiffens against him. “What-- Oliver, what am I supposed to do with these papers now?” She glances around a bit frantically. “I don’t even know where my clutch _is_ right now, and these _certainly_  won’t fit, but we can’t just leave them lying around on a table. What if--?”

“Felicity,” he interrupts with a little laugh, because, God, she is the best thing in his life. “Let’s go talk to Diggle. You know he’ll offer a practical solution.”

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. “Yeah, okay.” She turns to Donna with an apologetic look. “Mom--”

“Go on, baby girl,” Donna interrupts, leaning in to kiss her daughter on the cheek. Then she wipes the lipstick traces away and says, “Enjoy your party.”

Felicity nods her thanks and takes Oliver’s hand. They move towards Diggle and Lyla, who have actually joined the few couples dancing, until Felicity catches sight of their friends and stops short. “Oliver,” she protests.

He tugs her a little close and gives her a confused look. “What?”

She gestures broadly at Diggle and Lyla, who are swaying gently. “We can’t just interrupt them!”

But he and Felicity are standing in the middle of the dance floor _not_  dancing, and Dig has already spotted them, dancing Lyla over. “Hey,” he greets them, as he and Lyla shift, standing arm in arm to form a little circle with Oliver and Felicity in the middle of the dance floor.

“Lyla!” Felicity greets with a happy grin. “Your dress is amazing!” She’s right -- Lyla’s wearing a simple but stunning floor-length gown in a glittering silver.

Lyla steps forward and give Felicity a quick hug. “Yours is, too. Best wishes, Felicity.” She glances at Oliver and offers her hand. “Congratulations, Oliver.”

Oliver smirks at her hand for a moment, then takes it as he leans in to kiss her cheek. “It’s good to see you, Lyla,” he greets. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight.” When he steps back, Felicity is engulfed in a big hug from Diggle, speaking in a low voice.

Dig lets Felicity go and turns to his girlfriend. “Hon, do you have your lockbag in the car?”

Lyla gives him an exasperated look. “You really need to ask?”

Dig grins. “Just checking. Felicity received some stock certificates as a gift. Can we--?”

“Of course,” Lyla answers, turning to Felicity expectantly. “I can bring them by tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“Thank you so much.” Felicity re-clasps the manilla envelope and hands it to Lyla. “I really appreciate it.”

“Be right back,” she tells them, then leaves to go store the papers securely.

Diggle glances between the two of them. “So,” he drawls, “Felicity is officially a Queen, huh?”

“Oh,” Felicity blushes. “I mean, I’m not-- I haven’t-- The name is kind of a lot?” She cringes a little as she looks at Oliver and adds, “Sorry. But on the plus side, the shares from Walter plus the current Queen family shares should give your fam--

“ _Our_ ,” Oliver corrects.

“Right. Of course.” Felicity gives a nervous little laugh, her hands dancing through the air in incomprehensible patterns. “Um. Yes. Uh... _our_  family--” She stops short, wrinkling her nose. “I’m _not_  used to that.”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “You will be,” he promises. “Eventually.”

“Sure,” she agrees, even though Oliver can tell she doesn’t quite believe it. “Eventually. But what’s important right now is that the Queen family has majority ownership again, which means--” The nervousness in her melts away as she refocuses on her plan for QC, so much so that she’s actually rubbing her hands together in anticipation when she continues-- “We can fire Isabel!”

She grins at them in the silence that follows.

“Are you sure?” Oliver asks. He’s hopeful, but also hesitant to believe the Isabel portion of their problem can be solved.

“Well, I mean, she’ll still own stock -- or Stellmoor will,” Felicity corrects. “But the stalemate is over, and the Queen family has control over the company, and should have a bare majority of seats on the Board, too, which can approve the firing of executive-level employees. So.” She nods happily. “In short, we can fire Isabel!”

Diggle crosses his arms, and Oliver is momentarily concerned for the structural integrity of the seams on sleeves of Dig’s suit jacket. “Which means QC is safe,” Diggle says. “At least for now. But what about the partner Isabel mentioned?”

Oliver sighs, frustrated. “Nothing new on that. I didn’t get the sense she was talking about QC specifically, though.” He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck.

Dig grimaces. “So an unspecific partner out there looking to cause you trouble just in general?” he muses. “That’s not great.”

“True,” Felicity agrees. “But now we know to be on the lookout for something,” Felicity points out. “That’s something. _And_  I can recalibrate my searches, look for people linked to Isabel, and then run checks on each one of them.”

“Sounds time-consuming,” Oliver observes.

Felicity shrugs off his point. “Maybe, but she gave us the clue to a mystery, and you know how I feel about unsolved mysteries.” She meets his gaze, her expression open and loving. “If there’s a way to protect you from a threat, I will find it.”

Just like that, the tension that had been building in him during their conversation breaks, and he slips an arm around Felicity to pull her into his side. If she's turning her prodigious intellect to solving the mystery of Isabel's partner in crime, Oliver has no doubt she will succeed. And more than that, he is awed by her fierce determination to protect him. “I have every confidence in you,” he tells her. She beams at him, and he can’t resist leaning in for a quick kiss.

“Well,” Diggle interjects, “it seems like that’s my cue to find my date.”

Felicity’s cheeks pink up a bit, but she gives Diggle a careless shrug. “Technically it’s our reception. We’re _supposed_  to be mushy and gross.”

Diggle grins at her and holds out his hand, pulling her back in for a hug. “You be as mushy and gross as you want,” he tells her. Oliver knows Diggle is genuinely happy for them, and that he’s put most of his reservations to rest.

“Thanks, John,” Oliver says.

To his surprise, Diggle just grins smugly and says, “Congratulations on finally getting your head out of your ass.” He claps Oliver on the back, gives them both a nod, and turns to scan the room for Lyla.

Oliver glares at Diggle, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Go dance with your spy girlfriend.”

Diggle laughs outright. “Damn straight. Why don’t you dance with your wife?”

With a good-natured roll of his eyes, Oliver waves Diggle off, then offers his hand to Felicity. “Would you like to dance?”

Her eyebrows jump up in surprise, and she looks between his outstretched hand and his face a couple of times. “Are you serious? I thought you didn’t dance.”

“I make exceptions for my wife,” he tells her, enjoying the way his words bring a faint blush to her cheeks. Felicity takes his hand, and he pulls her into his arms. He learned the basics of a few formal dances as a kid, but he doesn’t care about which dance should go with what song, or how much space he’s supposed to leave between himself and his partner. He just wants to hold Felicity close and shut out the rest of the world.

Clearly, Felicity feels the same. She slips her arms beneath his jacket and around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. Oliver hugs her back, and they basically just sway in place, taking tiny steps and holding onto each other.

“Mmmmm” Felicity hums. “This is nice.”

Oliver presses his palm to the warm skin of her upper back. “It is,” he agrees. It’s more than nice; it's a pure kind of happiness he’d never expected to feel again, after the island. He wants this feeling to last; he wants this kind of simple happiness with Felicity to be a mainstay of his life. He wants to be married to her for real, to claim a place at her side for the rest of their lives.

He knows this isn't the time; he knows they're just taking their first, faltering steps together, and that the best thing to do is forget all about their tactical marriage while they focus on becoming true partners in every sense of the word. He _knows_. But he promises himself they _will_ have that conversation. Soon. 

In the interim, he'll put all of his efforts into making this work. “Maybe we can take a some time,” he suggests.

“To do what?” she asks softly. She’s draped against him, her fingers tracing little loops on his back.

“To go away,” he answers. “For a vacation. We haven’t really taken much time off the past couple years.” It’s true, ignoring his depression- and guilt-fueled retreat to Lian Yu for a few months. But that certainly wasn’t a _vacation_.

“A vacation, huh?” She’s amused, but he’s not quite sure why. He can feel her smiling against his chest and he squeezes her tight. “From QC or from our nighttime activities?”

Oliver smirks. “I don’t ever want to take time off from our nighttime activities, Felicity,” he murmurs against her hair as he trails one finger along her shoulder blade until she shivers.

“Our nighttime activities _with Dig_ ,” she answers primly.

He laughs into her hair. “Let’s please not call it that.”

Felicity hugs him tighter, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “You know what I mean,” she grumbles, mock-glaring at her in the least-threatening and most adorable manner possible.

“Yes, I do.” He dips down to steal a quick kiss. “And I meant a vacation from all of it. Just you and me. Maybe in a couple months, once we get QC back on track.”

She grins at him. “You know, the thing you’re describing sounds kind of like a honeymoon,” she tells him.

Oliver smiles back. “Then let’s go on something kind of like a honeymoon.”

Felicity tilts her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “You have a soft, squishy, romantic heart under all of your grumpy gruffness, Oliver.”

His amusement fades into something softer, a warm, soothing feeling that fills some of his cracks and fissures. He nuzzles her nose, then kisses her. “Only with you.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, the story is complete, though I am working on a brief epilogue that will arrive in the next few weeks. Thank you all for coming along on this ride with me!


	15. Epilogue:  Four Months Later

 

 

 

**Four Months Later**

  
  


On their third morning in Bali, Oliver wakes to the sound of waves crashing against the shore without flinching, and without coming to full alert in anticipation of a threat. It’s a new experience for him, this slow, calm awakening, and he credits it entirely to the woman lying beside him. He’s warm and comfortable, with Felicity pressed against him in several places -- her forehead resting against his shoulder, one bare arm flung limply across his torso, and her toes just barely brushing against his calf.

For the first time since that heart-stopping night that he and Felicity walked into the Mansion to find his mother chatting with Slade Wilson, Oliver finally, _finally_  feels rested.

He is only just now, after a couple of days and nights of this kind-of honeymoon, beginning to recover from the soul-deep fear he’d experienced that awful night nearly two weeks he can still feel the searing panic when he lets himself think about an angry, teary-eyed Thea lashed to some rusted-out machinery in the water treatment plant while Slade held Felicity tightly to his chest, his razor-sharp sword held right against her neck.

Earlier that day, Oliver had just _let_  her walk willingly into danger. 

Once they’d figured out that Thea was missing, Oliver had known with nauseating certainty what would happen next. He’d remembered that horrible moment on Lian Yu, with Shado and Sara on their knees, and he’d guessed what Slade’s endgame would be -- Thea and Felicity. 

He’d promptly decided to turn himself over to Slade, to _death_. Anything to save the two most important women in his life. But Felicity and Diggle persuaded him that Slade didn’t want Oliver’s death -- he wanted Oliver’s suffering.

_”So then what do we do?”_  he’d shouted at them, enraged and helpless and so fucking terrified he’d been shaking.

Felicity had proven in that moment what Oliver’s always known -- she’s far braver than he is. 

He can remember with skin-prickling precision the wary look Diggle and Felicity had exchanged, just before Felicity tilted that stubborn chin of hers up an announced with determination, _”We give him what he wants. We give him me.”_

Slade has 60 pounds of muscle and super-human strength on Felicity, without even getting to his finely honed fighting abilities or his facility with weaponry. And Felicity? Felicity let herself be kidnapped, armed only with one vial of mirakuru antidote and the strength of character to do what’s right.

Oliver shudders with the memory, with all the ways it could’ve gone so very wrong, and Felicity stirs beside him. She grumbles, pressing her face more tightly to his skin, anchoring him to the here and now.

“Y’okay?” she mumbles in between soothing kisses to his shoulder. He’s never had such a perfect antidote to his nightmares before spending his nights with Felicity Smoak -- it should be no surprise that she can so effortlessly bring him out of his dark thoughts, too.

“I’m okay,” he reassures her, rubbing his palm along the smooth skin of her back. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmm, you’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs, and he can tell by the timbre of her voice that she’s shifted into wakefulness. They’re both still struggling a bit with jet lag -- Bali is 15 hours ahead of Starling -- but their fitful attempts at sleep have provided ample opportunities for lazy, tender sex.

Oliver grins at the gauzy white mosquito net draped over the pillars of the large bed they’ve spent at least half of the past 48 hours in, then shifts into action. “Maybe I just need something to focus on,” he suggests, levering himself over her, kissing her before she even gets her eyes open.

Felicity’s laughing too hard to kiss him properly, and it’s one of his favorite things in the world. He rewards her by making his very slow, incredibly attentive way down her body. She’s beautiful as ever, her skin a shade darker from the past couple days spending time in the sun, and the scrapes and bruises from their heart-stopping showdown with Slade have faded almost entirely away. 

Sex with Felicity, he’s learned, is intense and mind-blowing, and somehow also affectionate and often funny. She is warm and giggling and _alive_  beneath his mouth and his hands, and he lets himself sink into the intimacy of the moment. He spends a small forever licking and sucking his way across her lower belly, smirking into her skin when her breath catches and her hands land on his shoulders and squeeze.

Chuckling against her, he slides further down, angling himself to keep most of his lower body on the bed, his feet getting caught up a bit in the mosquito netting as he settles between her thighs. He breathes her in for a moment, enjoying the way her hips shift and roll with anticipation, and then he dives in, moaning almost as desperately as she does as he tastes her. 

He takes his time, using his lips and tongue, his hands smoothing along her thighs, across her belly, holding her hips still when she bucks a little too enthusiastically and then gasps an apology. He coaxes her higher and higher, his tongue on her clit, two fingers pumping inside of her, until she’s breathing his name on every ragged exhale. He knows her body, reads her impending orgasm, and presses the tips of his fingers against her g-spot until she explodes. 

Felicity is beautiful when she comes, her damp skin flushed a deep pink. She sucks in big gulps of air, her body undulating under his hands as she trembles through her bliss. 

When he lands beside her with a woosh, still breathing hard himself, she rolls onto her side and throws one shaking leg over him. “Best wake up call,” she breathes into his neck, her small warm hand snaking down his abdomen. “But I’m greedy.” She nips gently at the stubbled skin along his jaw. “I want more,” she says, pulling back just enough to watch his face as her small, strong hand wraps around his cock. 

Oliver lets all the warmth and happiness he’s feeling show on his face as he rolls her onto her back and grins down at her. “If it’s you asking,” he tells her, shifting to press himself against her warmth, “I’ll do it.”

Felicity wrinkles her nose at him in amusement. “My hero,” she teases, and then gasps as he slides home.

& & &

Felicity is still wary of their rented moped. Or, perhaps more accurately, she is wary of Oliver’s glee in having her plastered to his back as he zips from their bungalow to the shops. It’s the first time they’ve really left the lovely seaside bungalow, what with the jet lag, all the great sex they’ve been having, and the fact that the rental agency provides a housekeeper who also discreetly cooks meals for them if they ask.

They’ve been asking a lot -- because jet leg! And sex!

But Felicity is determined to find souvenirs for Dig and Lyla, and for baby Sara, and for Thea and Moira, and, of course, for her mother. It’s quite a range of tastes to accommodate -- from sparkly to understated to kid-appropriate -- so Felicity persuaded Oliver to make a long afternoon of it. He’d acquiesced so quickly that she is mildly suspicious.

Once they park the moped, Felicity unwraps the fluttery skirt of her bright purple patterned sundress from where she’d tucked it beneath her thighs. She and Oliver walk, hands linked, and browse the small storefronts. The shops are clearly geared for foreign tourists, offering similar collections of jewelry and local arts and crafts. 

They stop for lunch at a small restaurant offering sate lembat, choosing a table on the open-air patio with a partial view of the ocean. Over coffee, Felicity ditches the wordlessly supportive tactic she’s been using since a bruised and bloodied Oliver emerged from his fight with Slade and crushed her to his chest. Felicity loves this man, and she knows he can get lost in his own head -- his own secrets -- if he’s not pushed. She doesn’t want to upset him, but she hates watching him torture himself for his (actual and imagined) failures. So she takes a breath and asks, “Have you called Thea?”

The languorous calm that has surrounded them since their arrival disappears.

Oliver shifts in his seat, and she can see him struggling with how to answer. Months ago, she promised not to make him tell her things if he doesn’t feel ready, and he promised not to lie to her. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “I’m giving her space.”

It’s a copout if she’s ever heard one. 

Three weeks ago, in what Felicity had assumed at the time to be the climax of Slade’s war of vengeance on Oliver, Slade had shown up at Verdant to announce to Thea that her brother is the Arrow. Never one to let things fester, Thea had promptly stormed back to the mansion to confront Oliver -- Felicity hadn’t fled the room fast enough to avoid overhearing some of the argument that followed.

When Oliver had found Felicity in the gardens after the rocky discussion with Thea, he’d looked shell-shocked, explaining that he thought Thea hated him. If Felicity hadn’t already hated Slade for what he did to Shado and Sara and Oliver all those years ago, she would have loathed him for trying to turn Oliver’s family against him. (And, yes, maybe also for manhandling her a bit in that last showdown, but since she’d chosen to place herself in harm’s way, she can’t really put her own terror and bruises in the same category as the vicious way Slade has treated Oliver and his loved ones -- Thea never chose to be a pawn in Slade’s mindgames.) 

Felicity knows that Thea had been shocked by the revelation, and hurt to learn that there were so many more secrets she was never told. But no matter how many times Felicity has tried to reassure Oliver that Thea just needed some time to process, she knows he doesn’t believe her. He’s convinced he’s lost his sister.

“Call Thea,” Felicity suggests. Again. “Or at least text her. She’s not mad that you’re the Arrow, Oliver. She’s _proud_  of--”

Oliver interrupts her with a scoff. “I can’t make her forgive me.”

Felicity swallows an irritable retort. No matter how stubborn and irrational he’s being, she knows he’s been conditioned to expect loss. To expect betrayal. She knows this man and the way his mind works. He’s still struggling mightily with the fact that Thea learned his secret and that Moira had already figured it out on her own. He’s still expecting them to both abandon him.

The reason he can’t see a way to fix things with Thea is that he’s trying to fix the wrong things. Oliver is so convinced that he’s irredeemable, that he’s a violent man who deserves condemnation, that he can only understand Thea’s anger as confirmation of his own worst thoughts.

“Oliver, my love,” Felicity says, enjoying the flush of pleasure her endearment brings out of him, “she’s hurt that you kept something important from her because she loves you.”

“I apologized and she asked for some time,” Oliver counters. “I don’t want to push her.”

“It’s been three weeks,” Felicity points out. “And nearly two weeks since everything happened with Slade--”

Oliver tenses even further, and she could kick herself for drawing his attention to that awful night. She’s got her own handful of terrifying memories -- plus a couple of brutally satisfying ones, like hitting a Mirakuru’ed up Isabel with the van -- but she’d meant to remind Oliver of the bone-crushing hug Thea’d given him in the aftermath. 

“She loves you,” Felicity tells him. “And if I know you -- and I do -- you gave your sister a very vague, non-specific _sorry_  and let her interpret it however she wants.”

That nearly gets a smile out of him. “Felicity.” 

“You know I’m right.” She sits back primly in her chair and takes a sip of coffee. “As one of the few people who has received _A Solemn Apology from Oliver Queen_ ,” she says, giving proper emphasis to the words “I can attest to the fact that you give heartfelt apologies, but you don’t often explain what you’re apologizing _for_.”

“I’ve done a lot of things wrong,” he answers, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not good at...” he sighs, “expressing how I feel.” Felicity raises a very suggestive eyebrow, grinning at the way he huffs a laugh. “With _words_ ,” he adds, shifting to run his hand up her thigh under the table.

Felicity reaches for his hand, tangling her fingers with his and pulling their joined hands to her mouth. She kisses his knuckles. “Apologize for the secret-keeping, and the dumb lies to cover it up. _That’s_  what upset her.”

Finally, Oliver admits the real reason he’s been putting off this conversation with Thea. “I don’t know if it will be enough,” he confesses in a near-whisper. “I don’t know what I’ll do if...” He presses his lips together, shaking his head wordlessly.

Felicity leans closer. “Thea loves you, Oliver. You’re not going to lose her.”

Oliver studies her for a long moment, then nods. “I’ll try,” he tells her, squeezing her hand and giving her one of those bone-melting, affectionately lustful looks. It’s amazing they ever get anything done, considering he can leave her shaking with desire with a simple glance.

Felicity beams at him. “Apologize _specifically_ ,” she reminds him.

After a brief argument over the time difference, Felicity pays the check and leaves Oliver to call his sister while she heads back to the shops.

She’s found a brightly colored sea turtle stuffed animal for Sara and a gorgeous indigo batik for Lyla and Diggle when Oliver rejoins her. He greets her with an enthusiastic hug, those big strong arms of his holding her so tightly she probably couldn’t take a full breath if she tried. She wraps her free hand around his neck, laughing. “It went well?”

Oliver grins. “She’s still snippy with me, but she agreed to a family dinner when we get back.”

Felicity taps his chin, leaning up to kiss him. “That’s great,” she says, feeling the last unresolved piece from Slade’s assault on Oliver’s life start to heal. “Now,” she says brightly, “we need gifts for Thea and our mothers!”

Oliver’s giddiness fades, but he’s a good sport, spending a large part of the afternoon shopping with her. He buys her a lovey set of garnet earrings, and she gets him a braided metal bracelet that she _knows_  he will never wear again once they leave Indonesia.

Still, he humors her because he loves her, and Felicity has learned over the past few months to trust his feelings for her; to trust his commitment to her. Against the odds and despite how strangely they walked this path, they’re _together_.

& & &

It’s dusk by the time they reach the bungalow.

Oliver helps Felicity off the moped, noting the flush of happiness on her cheeks. He pulls the shopping bags from the compartment under the seat, then links their hands to head inside. It remains surprising to him sometimes how _right_  this feels with Felicity. He’s still occasionally uncertain how to make sure he doesn’t screw this up, but over the past four months, he’s learned that his self-destructive tendencies from before the island have been replaced by the desire to be with this woman that he loves.

He hasn’t been tempted to run, not even once, not even when she was squarely in Slade’s crosshairs, and that’s how he knows this relationship is for keeps.

He can already see the warm glow of candles, and lets out a sigh of relief that the resort workers came through despite how little advance warning he’d given them of his request. Definitely he’s going to leave a big tip; and he and Felicity are absolutely coming back here as often as possible.

When he opens the front door, there’s a pathway created by the flickering lights of small, glass-encased pillar candles, leading through the airy living space on the first floor and out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the back patio. Oliver steps towards the stairs, leaving their purchases on the side table against the side of the stairwell.

Felicity turns wide, surprised eyes to him, and he can’t help but feel a little smug that he’d managed to pull this off. (Or that he’d managed to ask the resort staffers to pull this off, anyway.) He’s done everything with her out of order, and often for the wrong reason. Sure, they’re together, now, and happy, but she still deserves the kind of effort he’s making tonight.

She deserves the occasional romantic gesture. 

And Felicity is so smart that it only takes her moments to put it together. “This is why you agreed to all the shopping,” she accuses with a mock glare, hands on her hips. She is his favorite tiny spitfire, with a personality full of sunshine and strength. He still wonders how he could ever deserve her.

Grinning, Oliver leans down -- way down, because she’s wearing sandals instead of heels -- and kisses her gently. Her small hand lands on his chest, fingers curling slightly into the material of his shirt to keep him close, and smiles against her lips. “Let’s have a nice dinner,” he murmurs.

Felicity, not one to turn down food, tips her head to the side and considers. “Mmmm, okay. Dinner now, sex later,” she whispers.

“Deal.” 

Oliver escorts her down the makeshift, candle-lit path, pausing to nod his thanks to the resort chef and staffer who have just finished setting out the food. Felicity waves brightly. “Thank you for all of this!” Predictably, the staffers are charmed by her, taking their leave with smiles and well wishes.

Oliver leads her out onto the patio, where the long, gauzy drapes have been tied to the poles to provide an unimpeded view of the moonlit beach in the distance. A dozen candles of varying heights and intensities cover the rough-hewn wooden table, illuminating the immaculately set places and the serving trays under silver.

“Okay,” Felicity murmurs beside him, her tone appraising. When he glances down at her, she seems a little awed as she takes it all in. 

The candlelight is just as flattering to her beauty as sunlight, and Oliver can’t help but admire the bare skin of her shoulders, covered only by thin, purple spaghetti straps of the sundress he’s looking forward to peeling off of her later.

She settles into her seat and watches him curiously as he begins to serve dinner, but she doesn’t pick up her silverware or begin to eat even when he settles into the seat catty corner from hers. Oliver tips his head. “What’s wrong?”

Her gaze drops to the luxuriously set table for a moment, then pins him again with her curiosity. “What is this?” she asks, and for a brief moment, he is _sure_  she knows. His heart beats wildly against his ribcage, but he tries his best to breathe normally.

Still, he manages to smile back at her, pressing his palms to his pants. “It’s dinner,” he says. Off of her skeptical look, he shrugs and admits, “It’s a nice dinner.”

“It’s a _fancy_  dinner,” she corrects, and though she’s still watching him a little too carefully, she relents and reaches for her wine glass. When she moans her appreciation at the taste, Oliver shifts a little in his seat, momentarily considering the idea of skipping dinner in favor of more sex.

Because he and Felicity have always had this fierce chemistry between them, even before he would allow himself to acknowledge what it means. But ever since they began sleeping together, that chemistry has increased, and sex with her has been easily the best, most satisfying sex he’s ever had.

He wants her all the time, can’t get enough of her warm skin and warmer laugh, and he knows she feels the same. 

But no. He has a plan. He is methodical when he wants to be, and tonight he has a plan, and he’s going to stick to it.

So he pushes away his lust and reaches for his wine glass. He moves it closer to hers, waiting for her to understand his intentions. She flushes and says, “Oh, sorry! I should’ve waited.”

“It’s fine,” he reassures her. Then he pauses, considering what he wants to say. In the end, his emotions are simple. “To us,” he toasts.

Felicity smiles shyly back at him, then clinks her glass with his. “To us,” she echoes quietly.

& & &

It’s fully dark by the time they finish dinner, their world reduced to the sound of waves and each other’s voices, and this small slice of heaven lit by flickering candles.

When Felicity finishes the last of her wine, feeling warm and full and blissfully happy from the food and the company, Oliver squeezes her hand. “Walk with me?”

She grins at him. He’s already opened up so much more than she’d ever really expected. Even during the depths of Slade’s attack on Starling, when Oliver’s self-loathing and guilt reared their ugly heads, he’d been surprisingly forthright about what had happened years earlier -- about what he thought was coming. The way he’s let her into his world, and into his heart, it’s made it easier for her to reciprocate. 

So she gives him a serious answer to his not-so-serious question, and hopes he can hear the underlying promise. “Always.”

Oliver takes a surprisingly unsteady breath, then pushes himself to his feet and assists her to hers. At the edge of the patio, where a crooked line of flickering candles illuminates the sandy path to the beach, they pause to kick off their shoes. She teases Oliver about getting sand in his pants -- again, and he laughs and ignores her. Again.

The man is surprisingly averse to the idea of shorts. 

Well, to _wearing_  them, anyway. He certainly seems to appreciate her in shorts. Particularly the short, tight, bright pink ones she wore yesterday -- he’d had his hands on her ass basically all day, Felicity remembers with a happy sigh. 

Before she can step down from the patio, Oliver squeezes her hand and says, “Wait a second. I didn’t think about-- There’s no light on the beach.”

Frowning, Felicity glances out at the moonlit shore. “It’s nearly a full moon,” she points out, tipping her head back to look at him. “What do you--?”

But Oliver cuts off her ability to speak -- or to _think_  -- when he drops to one knee in front of her, his free hand fumbling in the pocket of his cargo pants. “Felicity,” he begins, his voice a little unsteady. “I--"

“What are you doing?” she interrupts in a near shriek, then claps her hand over her mouth, staring down at him with wide, shocked eyes. Because he _can’t_  possibly be-- 

Her outburst seems to steady him somehow, and Oliver exhales loudly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he beams up at her. “I love you,” he announces.

Felicity nods a little maniacally, her eyes on the small, dark box in his hands. “I love you, too.”

Oliver has her right hand in his left, and she can feel the warm metal of his ring against her fingers. “I know we did a lot of this backwards,” he starts, holding the small jewelry box aloft, “or for the wrong reasons, at least at first, but I hope you’ll agree we’re in a good place.”

“A very good place.” She nods, her words tumbling out of her. “The best place. My favorite place.” Felicity has to press her lips together to stop all of the rioting, happy _feelings_  in her chest from spilling out of her in the form of an epic, unstoppable babble.

Oliver’s smile grows even brighter. “My favorite place, too,” he tells her in that soft, warm tone of voice she’s only ever heard him use with her. Then he blows out another nervous breath. “I know we’re technically already married, but we chose that as a tactic.” 

A tendril of doubt sneaks in, and Felicity’s smile fades just a little bit. “Right,” she answers. The memory of her doubts, of her former certainty that he would eventually leave her slithers through her chest, and she drops her gaze.

“Hey,” Oliver says quietly, tugging her hand just a bit, waiting until she meets his gaze to lift his eyebrows and say, “You deserve more than a tactic, Felicity. You deserve a real proposal, and a real wedding, and a real husband.” Oliver glances down just for a moment, opening the velvet jewelry box in his hand and turning it towards her. 

The candlelight isn’t really all that bright, and Felicity can’t make out much of the ring inside the box other than it sparkles. Of course it sparkles. Her breath catches, and she makes an indecipherable noise of shock.

“So, Felicity.” Oliver pauses, and she tears her gaze from the ring and stares right at his hopeful, upturned face. “Would you make me the happiest man in the world and agree to remain my wife?” She’s already nodding, but he’s not finished. “I want to be your husband for real,” he tells her in that low, steadfast, vow-making voice of his, the one that makes her heart swell and her legs shake. “Forever. Is that okay with you?”

Her knees are about to give out, and she can’t stand even an inch of distance between them right now, so Felicity drops down beside him, not even feeling the jarring impact as she flings her arms around Oliver’s neck. “Yes,” she breathes into his ear. “Absolutely yes. Definitely that’s very okay with me.” Oliver’s laughing, and she’s grinning and squeezing the life out of him, and he’s crushing her to his chest, but she still _can’t stop talking_. “Nothing has ever been this okay with me before, I don’t think.”

Oliver’s arms loosen just enough for him to pull back and kiss her. She responds enthusiastically to her -- fiance? Husband? None of the options are _new_ , considering the strange evolution of their relationship, but the notion of Oliver as her _husband_ feels a lot more real suddenly.

A lot more permanent.

Oliver pulls back, and they’re just kneeling on the patio beaming at each other. “Really?” he asks, a note of awe and hope in his voice.

“Really,” she answers with a nod.

Then with shaking hands, Oliver pulls the ring free and places it reverently on her finger, where it clinks against her plain wedding band, sparkling darkly in the night. It’s not a diamond, and Felicity examines it curiously.

The stone is large and square cut, the setting beautifully understated. She thinks the gemstone looks a little bit red in the candlelight, but it’s hard to tell.

“It’s a ruby,” Oliver tells her, his thumb brushing against his ring on her finger. 

“Oh,” Felicity breathes.

When she looks up to meet his eyes, he presses a gentle kiss to her lips. “I’ve always loved you in red.”

  
THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, my friends! <3


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